


when i close my eyes.

by purelyhxrry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, American Civil War, F/M, Fanfiction, Gen, Historical Fanfiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 01:41:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 54,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6780124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purelyhxrry/pseuds/purelyhxrry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow their pinky fingers wind up taut around each others, tears mixing with hushed promises that, one day, they’d make it out of here and they’d each have ten kids and they’d each marry a beautiful wife (“Not in that order, I hope,” Louis jokes). Harry realizes that that’s kind of the point, isn’t it. That he doesn’t need to know where they came from or what they’ll do next: only where they are going. Where they are headed. So he locks fingers with all of them again and they fall asleep like that, underneath the stars, coyotes howling at the ghosts of their dreams that hover above their heads as they slumber, glistening sparks of passion dissipating into the night.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>An historical AU set in the 1860s, during the American Civil War. Featuring Harry as a medic student, Louis as a drifter, Zayn as a god among mortals, Liam as a tutor and Niall as a milkman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is my baby and I love it. A part of me hopes you do, too.
> 
> For your listening pleasure, I've created a soundtrack that you can listen to while you read this fic. You can find it [here.](http://8tracks.com/purelyhxrry/when-i-close-my-eyes)

 “Dad, how do soldiers killing each other solve the world's problems?”   
― Bill Watterson, Calvin and Hobbes

+

_November 6 th, 1860 – London, England._

He opens his eyes.

Grey.

The day that his life begins is grey.

He’s up, dressed, bathed and having eaten by quarter past eight- his roommate, Ed, is still snoring away loudly in his bed. He’s standing at the window, looking out from his apartment to the bustling London street- he can see the Thames, early morning riser- sleepy, just washing lightly against the shore. Convent Garden is awake already- it’s been awake all night, he can practically hear his mum’s words echoing in his ear, _Dunno why you chose to come to London, Harry, this city never sleeps anyway._

The clock strikes half past eight and he sighs, grabbing his books and throwing a glance into the cheap, broken mirror hanging crooked on the dismal, off-white wall. He throws open the door and shuts it, nodding to his neighbor, Mrs. MacCready.  Everyday it’s the same- eight o’clock, get up. Quarter past eight, eat. Half past eight, go outside, nod to Mrs. MacCready, walk down the steps side by side- never speaking, leave and part your separate ways- Harry to the south, Mrs. MacCready to the east. He doesn’t know where she goes every day, doesn’t know if she’s married or if she was married. He’s lived in this building for four years and he doesn’t even know her first name.

Everyday it’s the same- everyday he passed the fish and chips market seller- the same man, withering hands and a booming voice, and everyday he says the same thing to Harry, “Good morning, old chap, care to have some fish ‘n chips?” And everyday- every single day for four years- Harry’s just nodded and smiled. He’s never said a word to him. Not a single word. Every day he passed the woman with two children—Bess and Bart, and everyday he Bess smiles at him and gives him a little wave. But he’s never spoken to her. The only reason he knows their names is because he overheard their mother speaking to them.

Every day it is the exact same.

He reaches the steps up to the same college he has every day for the past four years- exactly 23 steps to the top, opens the door, holds it for three people behind him, walks inside, make a left, make a right, turn, go up more stairs, open the next door and find his seat- third row, fourth seat in, perfect view of the Thames. It’s routine. This is his life- meticulous, careful, planned. Always the same. Never changing.

Constant.

Dr. John Inglis steps into the room at precisely 9:02- the same every day, pocket watch gleaming in his hand as he gazes down at it and surveys the room. Harry doesn’t quite know why he does that every day- because it’s always the same, everyone there but the two seats missing in the back, and now, look! There they are- same as every day, Michael and Calum, late, as they have been for every other day of every other year.

“Welcome,” Inglis says in his monotonous tone as he has done every other day of every other year. “Today we will be focusing on some examples of cases of variola, found in Boston Hospital, slow preparations of lead poisoning and a lecture by Prof. Sigmund on five different cases of syphilitic patients with sustained fractures- two right radiuses, the left fibula, the left clavicle and the left humerus.” Inglis adjusts his glasses, looks down at his watch again, pockets it and smiles that half smile that Harry never knows how to interpret correctly. “However, before we do so, I would like to congratulate our very own student- Harry Styles- on his recent news of a trip – and apprenticeship - to America.” The class politely smiles and applauses, and Inglis turns to Harry. “I understand you are traveling to South Carolina and are going to be working underneath the tutelage of Dr. Robert Turner Allison?”

“That’s correct, sir,” Harry says softly. “My uncle, Rutledge, lives close to Allison’s practice so I will be staying with him for the duration of my apprenticeship.”

Inglis nods and smiles. “Well, we wish you the best on your journey.” He pauses, looks down at his papers and then nods. “Very well then, let us continue with the samples of variola. Michael, will you please get the microscopes?”

+

_November 21 st, 1860 – Charleston, South Carolina._

The city of Charleston, South Carolina, is nothing like Harry had imagined it. It’s bustling and busy- but not in the Londoners _busy, no time, must go, must rush, must hurry_ way. It’s slow and steady- warm, like honey… It’s easygoing, and as soon as Harry is off the _SS Saint George_ and in the balmy climate that is South Carolina, as soon as he hears a quartet playing _Yankee Doodle_ on the corner of the street, he smiles and sighs. “This will be a new start,” he promises himself.

“Pleasure having you aboard,” Captain Kent says in his booming tone as Harry grabs his luggage and clambers off the ship. “Enjoy your time in South Carolina!”

Harry barely has time to acknowledge the captains words before a loud, “God _damn it,_ Betsy, for the love of Jesus Christ, will you please stop babbling on like a mother whose lost her child and just shut your cake trap for three stinking seconds, puh- _lease_ , and thank you”

And, well. Harry knows that voice. He could recognize it anywhere- he remembers it from Christmases and Easters, as a child- peeking out from behind the little Christmas tree him and his mum had managed to wrangle in from the small forest outside their house, he remembers Gemma’s shrieking cry, every year, without fail, _“Uncle Rutledge!! Uncle Rutledge is here!”_ Heaven knows his Uncle talked a mile a minute back then, and he certainly didn’t slow down.

“Harold, my boy!” his booming voice calls from the gangplank- brushing Betsy off with a smile and waddling his way over to Harry, embracing him in a hug. Harry closes his eyes and lets himself be carried away by the sheer _scent_ of his uncle… Carried away to home, to happiness.

Back to when the world was a different place.

“Well, then, how are you? My, you’ve grown, hasn’t he, Betsy?” Harry’s eyes drift to his Uncle’s housekeeper- Betsy Rutledge, slave to his Uncle, had been for years. Betsy was just as much family as Uncle Rutledge was to Harry, but he remembers being young and unafraid and giving Betsy a hug when they departed back for America- remembers the harsh _slap!_ as Uncle Rutledge scolded, _“My **goodness** , Anne, do you not teach the boy anything? She’s a slave, you don’t hug her, you moron.” _Betsy doesn’t look up from studying the ship’s deck, she nods slowly. Harry realizes he’s never actually seen her eyes before.

“Well, you must be famished. I’ve had all them working on lunch all day long out in the kitchen, you’ve got your bags- don’t you? I distinctly remember this one time where I came back from- was it England or China, Betsy?- well, anyway, I came home from God knows where and dear,   _Lord,_ I forgot half of my luggage on that ship and I never saw it again. My favourite pocket watch was in that darned old thing, ah, too bad- as the French would say, c’est la vie… No idea what that means anyhow.” Uncle Rutledge’s tarnished beard, _salt and pepper, sand and sea,_ Gemma’s voice echoed in Harry’s memory, fell about two inches, wrinkled eyes, smiles carefully hiding well founded secrets. His uncles flabby hands, always folded carefully over his ample belly, wave halfheartedly at Betsy and nod down the gangplank. “Off we go, then, lad!”

Harry smiles as he follows Uncle Rutledge to the small carriage, smiles as Uncle Rutledge projects a fist into the air and shouts, “Forwards!” Harry realizes, then, that this is his chance for a fresh start in a New World. He can be who he wants to be, and nothing is holding him back.

“Well, go on then, Solomon!” Uncle Rutledge is shouting at the carriage driver. “We’ve got places to be, people to see, food to sample.” Laughing heartily, he settles back on the seat and folds his hands over his ample belly. “So, do tell me Harry… Why, in God’s good name, did you decide that _now_ would be the time to come over to America? Heaven knows this ship’s about to sink any day now, surely you know that. You’re in medicine, not in art.”

“I’m aware, sir,” Harry says softly. “This was the time that worked best for Dr. Allison, so I chose it.”

Uncle Rutledge studies Harry for a few more moments, but he doesn’t say anything. Harry’s glad. “Well, no matter. We’ll be having lunch at Hampton, this afternoon over to Allison’s, then this evening over to Boone Hall.” Rutledge laughs and shakes his head. “Time doesn’t slow down here, my boy, but- then again, you’re English and you need a good partying-up anyway.”

Harry smiles and watches Uncle Rutledge silently as they journey along the rest of the countryside leading to his Uncle’s plantation. He can see so much of Mum in him; his eyes, his smile, his wrinkles and crow’s feet. He tries not to think of that- because, after all, Uncle Rutledge is all Harry has left. But he refuses to dwell on it, refuses to reminisce more than he should because this is his life now. He is in America, with an internship lined up with one of the best doctors in the South and he is going to smash it.

The carriage pulls to a stop and he hears Solomon say, “Woah,” to the horses. Rutledge opens the door and gestures widely to the great expanse of green, “Welcome to Hampton Plantation, my boy! I hope you’ll be happy here.”

And, it’s just.

Spectacular.

The house itself is dazzling- humongous, with two stories of whitewashed, pearly marble towering above them in the South Carolina sunlight. The air is so fresh- so alive and so, so rejuvenating. After weeks at sea and years in London’s muggy mess of pollution, the warm and refreshing Southern air is a _welcome home_ that Harry hasn’t received in years.

And… the people.

There’s Auntie Mae, out on the porch smiling widely and babbling on and on (exactly like her husband, Harry thinks, but he doesn’t say it aloud). She runs towards him, arms outstretched, and maybe a few tears slip down his cheeks when he’s finally in someone’s arms- how long has it been? Auntie Mae is the closest thing he has to a mum now, and he is so, so goddamn thankful that she’s still here. “How are you, sweetheart?” He doesn’t say anything, but then again, does he really need to? His eyes connect with Auntie Mae’s and he thinks he understands; she’s never had kids, he doesn’t have a mother. They join together naturally. Mae doesn’t even wait for him to respond, she knows it’s too painful, she simply grabs his cheeks in her warm and gentle palms and pressed a kiss to his forehead, murmuring softly, “Come on, sweetheart, lets go get some sweet tea and talk until our mouths fall off.”

Uncle Rutledge, seemingly oblivious to his wife’s and nephew’s quiet conversation, continues, “Well, Mae, I don’t know about you, but I am famished, and Harry boy here certainly doesn’t have any extra meat on his bones, take a good look at him- _Samson_! What on earth are you doing? Those horses aren’t there to just stand there, go on now, get! Go put ‘em away!”

Harry and Auntie Mae make their way into the large and opulent mansion- he tries not to gawk and gasp and drool over the paintings, the furniture, the doors and staircases. “Do you ever get lost in here?” he thinks, _damn it,_ he says- Auntie Mae, bless her heart, just smiles and shakes her head. “You get used to it after a while, darling.” They pass rooms after rooms- windows after windows, it’s so big and airy and he feels like he could most likely just stay here forever and not ever feel alone.

They reach a large dining room eventually; with a long table stretched in the middle of it with at least ten chairs on either side. Uncle Rutledge claps his hands together loudly, “I’m starving, let’s get a move on, ladies and gentlemen!” Auntie Mae shakes her head and motions for Harry to sit down on his left, she on his right. The food is brought out by dark hands. Uncle Rutledge hastily prays and then stuffs half a dinner roll in his mouth while guzzling Concord wine.

Auntie Mae locks eyes with Harry and smiles. “Welcome home, Harry.”

_Welcome home._

+

_November 25 th, 1860 – Hampton Plantation, South Carolina._

“Good morning, Masta Harry,” Joline says as he opens his door on another new day. “Breakfast in bed or downstairs?”

“Downstairs, thank you Joline,” Harry says cordially, nodding to her and opening one of the windows on the misty South Carolina morning. He can hear the slaves singing in the fields, the cotton had already been harvested, he can hear the whinny of horses and the blowing of the breeze.  It smells like coffee and fresh laundry and he doesn’t complain, this is life, this is what he was made for.

He hears wheezing behind him and turns to see Uncle Rutledge leaning on the door, wiping his forehead with a bright yellow hankie. “My goodness, I swear those stairs get longer every time I climb them,” he comments, then seemingly brightens and approaches Harry, standing beside him at the window. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks in a soft tone, a wondering tone. Harry’s eyes filter over the plantation, “Yes,” Harry responds. “Dazzling.”

Rutledge turns and studies Harry for a few more moments, smiling softly at the boy. “You look so much like your mother,” he comments sadly. “She would’ve been proud of you, you know. Prouder than she would’ve cared to admit.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Harry’s eyes fill with unwanted tears at the mention of her name and he smiles. He’s not one for flowery words or frilly poetry, but he allows himself to delve into the emotion of the moment. “Sometimes… I feel her. Like, just, in the small things.” For once in his life, Rutledge doesn’t comment, he allows his nephew to go on. “This was her room, wasn’t it? Before she met Pa?”

Rutledge nods, sighing and closing his eyes, letting the sunlight wash over his face. “She used to sit here, on this seat,” he calmly continues, and the tone of his voice makes Harry almost see her- sitting, black hair blowing in the wind, sunlight playing with her hair and bare toes wiggling in the breeze. “She would read that dismal book, ehh… _The Raven,_ by Poe. Dreadful and depressing, that is,” Rutledge allowed himself to smile but then nodded and retained his reminiscent composure. “She’d just sit for hours, reading. She loved it here. It was her… Her safe haven, I suppose.”

Harry runs his fingers over the worn seat, as if it could bring her back, even though he knows it won’t. Rutledge’s fingers join his own and his uncle whispers softly, “I’m happy you’re here. And I know she is too.”

A noise from behind them announces Samson; eyes downcast, feet bare, even in the chilly November wind. “The carriage is ready when you are, Massa Rutledge,” he says slowly.  

Uncle Rutledge claps a hand on Harry’s shoulder, ending the meaningful conversation. “Very well… Come on, lad. Let’s go eat and then we shall be off.” Harry smiled as they continued to walk down the stairs; Uncle Rutledge back to his normal self, chatty and simple-minded. “I think you’ll like Allison, I really do, he’s a good fellow, really is… Wouldn’t you say so Mae? Mae? Oh, for… where _is_ that woman?”

**_\-----_ **

Allison is every bit of the kind of doctor Harry imagined him to be; kind, smart, intelligent, funny at times but very stern at others. He and Harry manage to find a sort of routine; Monday through to Wednesday are the routine checkups around the county and beyond. Thursday is critical care, Friday book work. Saturday Harry goes back to Hampton and Sunday is a day of rest.

It’s simple and practical, filled with lots of work, and Harry enjoys it.

Comparatively, Dr. Allison is everything that Uncle Rutledge isn’t. Allison is quiet and well-worded. Allison is very healthy and fasts every Sunday. Perhaps the most striking difference, however- and not just compared to Rutledge, but in general, when compared to the whole South Carolina community, Allison is very different in one bold aspect- Allison does not own slaves. And people do not take kindly to that sort of behavior- Harry’s noticed it already, and it’s only been a week.

The first time was the day after he arrived at Allison’ Plantation. He’d gone into town by himself, to see the sights and peruse the shops for anything he might need (which, was really nothing, but he was looking for an excuse to simply spy and waste time while he could). He was in Booker’s Mercantile, meandering the aisles and running fingers over exotic spices he’d never heard the names of when a booming voice called out, “Never seen you around here before. What’s your name?”

“Harry,” he’d responded. “Harry Styles. I’m new around here, I’m the apprentice for Dr. Allison.”

A dozen different emotions flickered across the man’s face, but at the end, one remained: hatred. His chin lifted and jaw steeled, “Nice meeting you,” he said in a curt tone, and at first, Harry didn’t understand. But as he left the shop, as the week went on, more and more people gave him “The Look”. Some simply whispered and pointed when he exited the telegraph office. Others were bolder, cutting him off and bumping shoulders with him when they passed him on the boardwalk. He tried not to notice it.

Allison, however, did.

“Folks have never taken kindly to me or my family,” he explained simply. “Not much else than that.”

And, well. Harry could see why. It didn’t take him long to figure out that it was as if there was two separate worlds down here in the South. Two separate entities… Constantly. White and black. Light and dark. Right and wrong. Left and right. Two separate bathrooms, two separate churches, two separate stores, pay wages, belief systems, judicial laws. He had learned, back in England, to treat anyone and everyone if they needed help medically- whether they could pay, speak, walk or hear.

But here…

There was one specific time. Harry and Dr. Allison had been in Charleston picking up medical supplies from the postal office when Harry had heard frantic cries from outside, _“Slave! Slave! Runaway slave!”_ He made it outside just in time to catch sight of a blur of black- the look of _hope_ , of _desperation_ on the runaway’s face- _maybe I can make it, maybe I can get out._ But the alerted cries soon had him trampled, held down as man after man threw punch after punch and harsh word after harsh word against him. After they were finished- after he lay broken and bloody- beaten to a pulp on the roadway, Allison grabbed his medical bag and made his way over to the slave. Harry stayed behind, but he did not miss the whispers and hushed pointed glances made towards the Doctor as he mended the runaway’s wounds.

The slave’s owner came up to him soon enough, practically kicking Allison away from him, spitting in his face, _“Darkies don’t need no charity, Allison! He ain’t never gonna learn if you keep coddlin’ them like that.”_ The owner hauled the slave up (moaning, groaning, in so much pain, so much blood, Harry was going to puke) and pushed him in front of him, demanding he walk. And the slave tried. Oh, how he tried. But he couldn’t do it. _“Take him to the darkie hospital!”_ the owner yelled to his driver.

Dr. Allison joined Harry on the side of the road, shaking his head and sighing. “That hospital is at least another twenty miles away. He’ll never make it.” And Harry knew better than to ask why the owner had pushed him away, why Allison wasn’t allowed to treat a dark person’s wounds.

And, well. Harry could’ve asked why, but of course he knew. It was obvious. Every party, every gala, every meeting… Allison wasn’t invited to. And it was easy to see why. While dark skinned people drove carriages and toiled in the cold November and early December weather at other people’s plantations, Allison’s fields were bare. He milked his own cow. He drove his own carriage. Harry did his own laundry.

If Harry was braver, he would’ve asked why. Having slaves certainly was fashionable, was it not? And it wasn’t that Allison didn’t have the money. But Harry was wiser than most, he understood the thin line between humanity and humans and sometimes people stepped over that line by equating freedom with money and slavery with work. He’d heard of William Wilberforce, read _Uncle Tom’s Cabin._ So he didn’t ask questions.

Still, it was people like Allison that brought about “The Feeling”. “The Feeling” of unrest, of discomfort. It felt like a wind was blowing, rousing the dried leaves off the ground, or a stirring of the fire. There was a certain sense that it was coming… soon. Change was in the air. Harry didn’t like to think of it, and he knew that neither did Rutledge, but of course they did.

When he was at home with Auntie Mae and Uncle Rutledge at Hampton, they went to parties. It was the thing to do. Harry found them boring and idle, however, he would never say so, because he knew that the same parties- masked with brilliant colours and dazzling champagne, were really just another excuse for the men to get together and chat about “The Feeling”, and no thank-you, he did not want to get in the middle of that. Still, he heard about it. They all did.

It was impossible to escape, really.

That’s what made it exciting.

**_\-----_ **

“Do tell us, Harry,” a lady in the blood red gown was saying, “Do you agree with Allison’s controversial yet stupid view? Or are you Brits more intelligent?”

The group that had formed around Harry giggled and snorted with laughter, their host- John Horlbeck, laughing but placing a gloved hand on her shoulder, “Relax, Greenhow, back down. The poor lad looks pale from fright.”

“And so he should be,” she murmurs, eyebrows arching, fingers tapping as if waiting for a response. Harry wasn’t willing to give her one. She shrugs and sighs, “We all know that the Rutledge’s are two steps away from becoming sympathizers, we’ve got to scare their nephew into siding with us.” The group laughs nervously- Harry doesn’t find it funny at all, and he doesn’t think that they do, either, but he gets the impression that Rose O’Neal Greenhow is not someone to play with.

“Oh, shut it,” Horlbeck sighs, seemingly bored and giving up on Harry. “To the parlour, men! Bring your cigars and let’s talk politics.”

The women sigh collectively and start small talking. Harry’s eyes scan the room, trying to find Uncle Rutledge- was he supposed to go with the men? Or with the women? When he can’t find either of his relatives, he smiles sheepishly at another girl approaching him, _God, get me outta here **fast** ,_ and bolts for one of the large French doors flanking both sides of the room.

He enters a large, checkered-floored room with a tall ceiling and mirrors everywhere you look. It’s not exactly comforting to be looking at your own reflection everywhere you turn, so he continues on through more and more French doors- _oh,_ he hopes he isn’t getting lost, although he probably is- he can hear Gemma in his mind whispering, _“Harry, when you were three, you thought North was whichever way your nose pointed, you are the last candidate for any world expeditions on my list.”_

Eventually Harry reaches the front room- he recognizes it from the lavish staircases, almost as many as are found at Hampton. Rushing for the doors, he opens them softly and slips out into the night. Exhaling heavily, he feels free, boots clambering on the walkways leading out of Boone Hall and onto the Plantation.

He is about halfway down the walkway leading to the slaves quarters when he hears singing coming from behind the one of the older shacks. There is an orange glow emanating from the sound as well, and as he approaches it, he realizes that the glow is from a bonfire. Several dozen dark people are gathered around the fire, singing, as if they have no worries or complaints and are simply singing to their savior at Sunday morning church. It takes Harry approximately 0.5 seconds to recognize the song, and 0.03 seconds for him to be noticed.

One larger woman comes up to him; eyes bold, brave, and it is with a shock Harry realizes he’s never locked eyes with a dark person before. “Chil’,” she says slowly; he smiles, her voice reminds him of Auntie Mae. “You shouldn’t be down here, darlin’,”

Her words announce his presence to the other members of the supposed congregation; it’s easy to see the fear in their eyes as they drop to the ground, only a few continue to look at him- unabashed, unashamed. As his eyes unknowingly scan their way through the crowd, his orbs land on one person in particular- a white man, looking at him bravely. He doesn’t have time to wonder or ask why a white man is down here, he’s not supposed to be down here, why is he down here, before the woman is tugging at his arm and pointing back to the house, “Go on, now. You don’t belong down here.”

“Neither do you,” the words are out before he can stop them. Clapping a hand over his mouth, he swallows and shuts his eyes tightly, expecting Uncle Rutledge to pop out of somewhere towing a ship behind him and slapping his behind until he flies off to Britain once more, shouting, _“Game over, you lose! You have an unpopular opinion which has led you to self-destruction and potential death! Congratulations, and good luck becoming an abolitionist and generally despised person universally!_ ” When he opens his eyes, he’s surprised to see her just smiling and shaking her head, clucking her tongue his mother used to do, still guiding him back to Boone Hall, “You better learn to tame that tongue of yours, chil’,” she’s saying. “It could get you into a lotta trouble.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Yes m-”

“It’s Harriet,” she says smoothly, again, like his mother would’ve done. “And don’t tell anyone that you met someone named Harriet,” she continues- with an inch of fear in her voice, but not enough for Harry to think any less of her.

He’s about to ask why when a voice calls from behind him, “Harriet! Hurry up, now! The train’s leaving.” If Harry were in art and not in medicine, he probably would’ve clued in to the fact that there was no literal train, this was South Carolina, but he was still caught up on the fact that this was the first dark person who’d ever spoken to him naturally and on their own accord. If Harry were in music and not in medicine, he would’ve continued up the walkway like good old Harriet had told him to do, without asking any questions, being a good little boy and respecting his elders. If Harry were in law and not in medicine, he most definitely would not have waiting until Harriet was out of sight before running after her- silently, of course, stealthily- of course. If Harry were in any other subject that required you to listen to your emotions without listening to your brain, he would’ve done as he was told and listened to the pounding of fear and adrenaline racing through his system.

But Harry was in medicine, and doctors never do what they’re told.

The only reason he did the impossible, you must remember, is very simple. There are two very strategic reasons as to Why Harry Styles Did Not Listen to the Mysterious Harriet and Decided to Follow Her Instead:

He knew that there were no trains in or anywhere near Boone Hall.

He was a Brit. Consequentially; no Brit ever listens to what they’re told and typically live pretty boring lives. This was a chance to do something dangerous.

So he did.

Creeping back towards the fire, he hides in the shadows, pressing himself flat against the wall. There’s dozens of slaves here, all dispersing from the firepit as Harriet makes her way back. “Y’all go on home now,” she commands, and they all listen. They all disperse.

All except one.

The white man (the only one who isn’t dark skinned) extinguishes the fire quickly as soon as the slaves depart, leaving Harry enveloped in complete darkness. He can barely see in front of him, but as he moves closer (quiet, so quiet, always quiet), he can vaguely see the three faces- one of Harriet, one of the white man and the third of a slave.

He’s not a normal slave, Harry can only assume. His skin is not dark, it is half-and-half, like coffee with lots of milk in it. And he is beautiful… A perfectly chiseled face, strong muscles, brave. He holds himself boldly, almost as if he were royalty. Harry immediately feels in awe of him.

The three of them are speaking in hushed tones, too quiet for Harry to hear. He catches faint phrases such as “passenger” and “railroad” and “conductor”. He understands the urgency of the moment but he does not comprehend the motive. There is a sense of hurry and fright as the three huddle in a small circle, but Harry doesn’t know why.

Then he understands.

In one smooth and fluid movement, Harriet and Louis glide over from the pit into the glade of trees encircling all of Boone Plantation. Harry knows where the trees lead; all the way around the plantation, through a swamp, down through a valley and into Broad River. His mind rushes ahead of his thoughts, but he has no time for questions… because the slave follows them.

Silence reigns.

Harry counts to ten in his head before throwing his hands in the air and creeping over to the glade, investigating, trying to find Harriet or the other man and demand to know what they were doing, but there was no one. It was as if they had disappeared. There are no footprints, no broken branches.

They have vanished into thin air.

+

“Well, thank _you_ for inviting us, John!” Uncle Rutledge is all but shouting at their host as he claps him on the back. “Coming to Boone Hall is always a pleasure!”

Auntie Mae notices Harry’s worried and troubled expression and crosses over to him in the large foyer. She takes his arm and leads him out towards the carriage, where Samson has the horses ready for departure. “What’s wrong, dear?” she asks as they leave Uncle Rutledge and Horlbeck behind to talk even more politics.

“N-nothing,” Harry manages to grit out, from between his teeth. His eyes dart to and fro, what is he scared of? The whole experience has him out of focus. He doesn’t know what to think.

“Darling,” Auntie Mae laughs. “Sweetheart. I know you’re lying.” She sits down on one of the seats, huffing, then crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. “What happened?”

Harry looks down at his fingers, noticing rapidly they were shaking (shaking, always shaking, never steady) and exhales. It’s dangerous ground. Even though Auntie Mae is his relative… He knows the way folks treat ‘sympathizers’. He’s British. Slavery is foreign to him. Everyone – even his aunt – knows that his country, and thus, he as an individual, does not approve of slavery in general. But they are kind to him, because he is a descendant of a deceased Rutledge. So he’s afraid. He does not want to compromise his mother’s legacy—or his uncle’s.

“Harry,” Auntie Mae interjects quietly, then sighs. “Listen.” Her eyes lift from his to look out the window at the long driveway leading to Boone Hall’s front door; lined with trees, guests bidding each other goodnight. “All of this?” she says, waving a hand at the ladies in expensive gowns and men with fancy cigarettes. “All of this… It’s just a façade. You understand that, don’t you? You understand… About the secession?” Harry nods, dumbly. His Aunt is treating him like a child but it is oddly comforting. “And… you understand. You understand about the… _delicacy._ The delicacy of the Negroes and the Whites… And how… How… If that delicacy is broken. If people find out, that… Perhaps, you or I, don’t _agree…_ we will all suffer.” Her words are sharp and they cut, Harry can feel his heart bleed (is it right, is it wrong, is it right, is it wrong).

Harry nods once more, waiting for Auntie Mae to go on. But she doesn’t. She is in another universe, another time. Her eyes are glazed over as she watches the carriages roll out of Boone Hall and continue on home. She does not speak for a very long time. When she does, her voice is broken and battered. “I’m not saying it’s right.” She gazes back at Harry, directly at him, and her gaze is full of power and passion. “I _never_ said-” Her voice breaks and a sob escapes her lips. “I never said it was right,” she cries, tears streaming down her cheeks. Harry’s heart breaks as he watches his aunt- strong, brave, bold, break down in front of him.  He crosses seats and wraps strong arms around her trembling frame, holding her head to his shoulder as he weeps.

The door to the carriage swings open and Uncle Rutledge appears. His eyes drift to Mae’s trembling form, then back to Harry’s gaze. He climbs into the carriage and sits on the opposing seat.

He says nothing.

Harry thinks this is the first time his uncle has ever been without words.

+

“God created war so that Americans would learn geography.”    
\-- Mark Twain, _Letters From the Earth: Uncensored Writings._

+

_November 3 rd, 1860 – Springfield, Massachusetts._

It is a nice house, at least.

Liam stands in the middle of the gusty street- one hand on hat, other hand on briefcase, feet at nine o’clock and three o’clock, just like he’d been taught. He squints at the address printed boldly on the side of the quaint little townhouse ( _426 S. 7 th Street_), it matches the one on his paper. Squaring his shoulders, he nods and strides confidently up to the door of the house. It isn’t shabby, it’s well kept. The owner is a politician or summat, anyhow, it is a nice house, at least-

“Excuse me?” a kind faced lady peers out from behind the door- short, round, sweet. “May I help you?”

“Yes, indeed,” Liam licks his lips and fumbles for his paper, dropping it and almost cursing _oh, Lord, already cursing in front of a woman_ as he presents it (half crumpled but not torn, at least) to the woman. “Liam James Payne, ma’am, tutor to-”

“William Wallace Lincoln?” the woman finishes for him, studying him for what seemed like half a nanosecond before practically collapsing against the door and hauling Liam inside- “Thank _God_ you’re here,” she wails as he toes his boots off and follows her bustling form down the long hallway _pictures on every wall, stern looking gentlemen, oh my… Isn’t that the presidential candidate?_ “Willie is not the sharpest knife in the drawer, I’ll give you that, but he’s also the most mischievous, this is your room,” she exclaims, Liam’s eyes darting around, trying to piece everything together. “You’re responsible for him from eight to four, teaching him arithmetic, the sciences, art and music if you can keep him on the piano for long enough.” She is still marching off somewhere, Liam barely has enough time to put down his suitcase on his new bedroom floor before running after her again.

She finally stops at the end on the hallway in a great big room filled from floor to ceiling in books. “Mr. Lincoln’s gone in Washington now, he won’t be back for quite some time, so you must imagine how I’ve been managing with two rowdy boys at home. It’s a nightmare, and the worst part is, I can’t wake up!” The woman sighs loudly, rummaging in drawers, pieces of hair falling out of her cap. “I’m Mary, by the way, Mary Todd Lincoln.”

There is half a beat of silence (Liam still trying to catch up on everything that had happened in the past two minutes) before he gulps and said, “Liam. Liam James Payne.”

“Well, Mr. Payne, you from Harvard then?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And you went into?”

“Political sciences.”

Mary gives a little _humph_ as she yells out of the door, _“William Wallace!!”_ then turns back to Liam, “Well, you and my husband will get along if all else fails.  He’d got the notion into his head that he’s going to become president, and left me with two ridiculously tiring boys in the middle of Massachusetts with a haphazard cook and now a Harvard political sciences graduate.” Mary heaves a great giant breath (at least she hadn’t spat on him yet) and leans against the desk for support, as if the long winded speeches she keeps making tired her. Liam knows they tire him.

A young boy, looking about 13, comes clambering into the room noisily, out of breath with mud on his stockings and boots. “Yes, mummy?” he asks loudly, Mary sighs and gestures towards Liam largely.

“Willie, this is your new tutor,” Mary explains. “The one Papa recommended?”

The boy’s face immediately falls (at least he hadn’t cried yet) as he turns to study Liam. “You gonna teach me math?”

“Yes, I am. Going to teach you. Math.” Liam curses himself inwardly for his halted speech, shaking his head, licking his lips and wringing his hands behind his back as Mary speaks softly to Willie and motioned his out of the door.  

“Breakfast is at eight, lunch at half twelve and dinner at six or seven,” she says, brushing past him and back into the hallway, picking up a stack on envelopes and flipping through them. “Sophia – the cook, you can talk to her if you have any dietary concerns.”

“None.”

“Very well. You’ll start tutoring Willie tomorrow, might as well give him one last day of freedom.” She says nothing more after that, opening a letter and leaning against the wall to read it- one hand clasped over her mouth, troubled expression on her face. Liam nods and went into his room, closing the door. Crossing the room, he undresses and crawls into bed- only to find three dead mice, all lined up in a nice little row, underneath his pillow.

It is a nice house, at least.

+

_November 4 th, 1860 – Springfield, Massachusetts. _

“Good morning, Liam,” Mary says brightly as he steps into the dining room- bright and early, for breakfast. “Did you sleep well?”

“Very well, thank you,” Liam responds. “The trip from- _ow!_ ”

His words are cut off as a sharp prick to his rear end is delivered as he sits down on the chair. Mary looks up quickly from her plate, utensils dropping onto the floor as she frowns. “Mr. Payne, _whatever_ is the matter?”

Fingers reaching underneath, they close around a pinecone, placed deliberately on his chair by whom he could only guess, considering the fact that Willie is giggling beneath his hand on one side of the table and Tad is gazing sternly at him from the other. Sighing, Liam chucks the pinecone underneath the table and smiles, brushing his hands and grabbing his utensils. “Nothing, ma’am. Just a little sore from my journey.”

Mary (seemingly oblivious to her son’s adventures) smiles and nods, “Very well, then. Let’s eat. Sophia! Sophia, we’re ready.”

The door to the kitchen swings open and in steps a middle-aged woman, about Liam’s age, with long red-brown hair and a mischievous smile. She dishes out the eggs and hash-browns, and when she reaches Willie’s plate, she gave him a little wink.

Liam’s face reddens.

He licks his lips.

_Well, then._

“Did you find your quarters satisfactory?” Sophia asks as she dishes out his food, spooning an extra large portion that looks suspiciously more green than anyone else’s.

“Very much so, thank you,” Liam says hurriedly, poking at his food like a dead animal and grimacing when he sees it _jiggle._ He is sure this isn’t sanitary. _Oh, Lord, what have I gotten myself into?_

“Let’s say grace,” Mary says suddenly, Sophia snapping to attention, eyes closed, head bowed. “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be thy name.” Liam can hear rustling. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” He can now hear giggling. “Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses.” Whispering. “As we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever-”

“Willie, don’t!”

Liam’s eyes fly open just in time for him to see William Wallace Lincoln replacing Liam’s own apple juice with a very suspicious bottle of what he can only assume is alcohol. Sophia is giggling in one corner, hands pressed to her mouth, face red with laughter. Mary looks halfway between shocked and amused, eyebrow lifted but shoulders shaking in giggles. Tad is the only one who seems to be even remotely sane in his family, head placed in hands, shaking his head, groaning.

Sighing, Liam tilts his head at Willie and grabs his cup from him. Thunking it on the table, his mouth wavers into a watery smile before he orders, “Hurry up and eat, then. You’ve got a half hour until your first lesson.”

The boy sheepishly smiles and giggles nervously as he sits down quickly, becoming tremendously interested in his food, racing his hash-browns in little snowballs across his plate. Silence rings loud in the small room for more than a few minutes until Liam breaks it, directing his words to Willie (and Tad, but he was more of a disguise). “Boys, I would just like you to know how wonderful my welcome has been here. Never in my life have I felt more loved and welcome in a home as I have here. I just wanted you to know that.”

Tad looks up slowly from his hands and into Willie’s eyes, raising an eyebrow. Willie’s gaze falls, ashamed, and Mary inhales sharply from the opposite end of the table, crossing her arms and clearing her throat, obviously not pleased with her son. “Mr. Payne-”

“No, ma’am,” Liam interrupts. Licks his lips. “Excuse me, but… They need to respect me of my own accord.” Mary nods and Liam manages a half smile, dropping his napkin on his plate as he stands. “Thank you for the meal, Sophia.”

Sophia nods, shell-shocked, and watches with open jaw as he strides out of the room.

+

_November 6 th, 1860 – Springfield, Massachusetts._

“Now, Willie, what is the capital of Texas?” Liam asks, gesturing towards the board with his pointer, hand running over his face, trying to eradicate the growing headache.

“Dallas,” Willie responds cheerfully. “I’ve told you a thousand times, now can you tell me about the West? _Please!!?_ I’ve asked you three bajillion times now, I’m sure of it. Are there cowboys? Injuns? Bunch o’ hollerin coyotes?”

“Willie!!” Liam yells, breaking the boy’s sentence. “I will not tell you anything about the West- not now, not until you get this.” Sighing, Liam closes his eyes and tries to gain more ground with the boy. “Now, let’s try it again. What is the capital of Texas?”

“Dallas!” the boy smiles. “So, really, do cowboys wear leather or is it just fake? My buddy Denver said-”

“Willie!! No, the capital is not Dallas,” Liam scolds, ignoring the boys curiosity. “The capital of Texas is Austin,” Liam reprimands, sighing and bringing out the map for what feels like the thirtieth time. “Come on, bud, we’ve been over this. Dallas is here,” Liam points, “Austin is here. Austin is the capital. _Austin._ Austin is the capital. Alright?” Willie nods, brows furrowed in concentration.

“Now,” Liam continues, licking his lips, eyes watching Willie warily as he rolls up the map and puts it away. “What is the capital of Texas?”

“Dallas.”

Liam moans and throws the pointer onto the floor, bending onto his desk, head in hands. “I give up!” he cries. “Go have a break until I call you.” Willie squeals in delight and runs out of the room, hollering again and again, _“Dallas is the capital of Texas! Dallas is the capital of Texas!”_

Liam feels so tired. He has been juggling tutoring Willie, Mrs. Lincoln’s barely intact emotions and Tad’s constant philosophical discussions for almost half a week now, and he’s not sure he can keep up with it. Sophia’s the only one who appears remotely stable, mostly because she doesn’t really talk to him. And, well. The Mysterious Mr. Lincoln remains, for the most part, mysterious. Liam is more terrified of him than anything else, if he’s honest.

“You alright?” Sophia says as she enters the room, carrying the fresh drapes from the laundry. Liam doesn’t respond, he just weakly grunts and lets his knees fall to the floor, exhausted.

“You want some coffee?” she tries again, and Liam nods. Rising to his feet, he follows her into the small kitchen where a fire is crackling in the hearth. She pours him a cup (he doesn’t ask why she already has it prepared) and gestures for him to sit down at the small table in the corner, two chairs-- cramped.

“So,” she says softly as she sits opposite him, mug in her own hands. “Tell me about yourself, Liam Payne. Tell me your tale of woe.”

“Don’t have one,” he mumbles around the mug’s lips, sipping the strong drink and sighing when he felt his brain brighten. “Grew up in Oregon, went to Harvard, came here.”

“That’s it?” Sophia’s brows arched, her lips forming into a small smirk. “Pretty boring life.”

Liam snorts. “You can say that again.”

“Ah, see?” Sophia laughs, and Liam’s spine stiffens. “There we are. Your tale of woe.”

Liam rolls his eyes and licks his lips, staring down the mug of his cup, refusing to answer Sophia’s comments. Her fingernails drum on the tabletop slowly, annoying him. Finally, he sighs loudly and bangs his cup down on the wooden surface, frustrated. “Fine.” Sophia smirks and places her chin on folded hands, as if a child, waiting for a story.

“I was born in Oregon, like I said. Well,” he pauses sheepishly. “Not _in_ Oregon. Apparently I was born somewhere between Maine and Oregon. But I don’t remember it much. My earliest memories are from my hometown, the place I grew up in… In Oregon City. My dad was the barber there, I don’t have any siblings. My parents encouraged me to learn as much as I could, you know, at school and stuff… Book learning. Because neither of them went to college.” Liam’s fingers trace the lips of his mug, a small smile forming on his face. “My mom, especially. When I came home from school she’d sit me down and grab one of my books and stumble through it, tellin’ me, “Liam, now, darlin’. You tell me everything you know.””

Liam braves a glance up at Sophia. She is smiling softly, eyes crinkled, as if she could see Liam’s mother sitting beside him as he spoke. “When I was fifteen,” Liam continues, “she died of typhoid.” Sophia says nothing as Liam sniffs and his fingers stop tracing. “And when I was seventeen, I went to Harvard.” He glances up at Sophia once more. Her mouth is more sad now. “I didn’t want to go, but… My mom. She would’ve wanted me to. It was her dream, for me to go to Harvard.”

“Did you go back? After you graduated? To see your father?”

Liam shrugs. “I would’ve liked to. But I got the job before I got the chance… Besides. It’s probably not a good idea to go West right now anyway.” Pushing away his empty mug, he levels his gaze with Sophia and raises an eyebrow. “And what about you, Sophia Smith?” He smiles when she laughs. She is beautiful.

_I did not just think that._

Sophia is about to respond when a short little scream is heard from the front parlor. A look of alarm cross both of their faces as they leap up- Liam expecting the worst, _Willie’s gone and done it now, he’s murdered someone_ \- but when they arrive, it is only Mrs. Lincoln, standing in the center of the room, holding a telegram with shaky hands. She looks up to them when they storm through the door, Sophia holding a knife and Liam looking ready to kill Willie.

“He…” Mary’s eyes are filled with tears, and, well. Liam has only known her for three days, but they aren’t of misery. They are of something else… pride? Joy? “Mr. Lincoln… He’s…”

“Ma’am?” Sophia interrupts, stepping closer to the woman, concern etched into her features. “Ma’am, are you alright? Do I need to fetch Doc-”

“Sophia… Sophia, he’s been elected.” Mary’s words hit the ground like cement, breaking through the haze of confusion and fog. “Mr. Lincoln is now the President of the United States.”

+

“If we don’t end war, war will end us.”  
\-- H. G. Wells

+

_December 17 th, 1860 – Allison Plantation, South Carolina._

“Good morning, Harry!” Doctor Allison all but shouts into Harry’s ear as the younger enters into the doctor’s office. “And how are you this fine morning?”

“Well,” Harry manages weakly. “I’ve been better.”

Allison pays no attention, gesturing to a stack of paperwork sitting on the messy and untidy desk. “Can you help me sort these prescriptions? Widow Hale is bothering me about her medication again and I need to try something else.”

“Have you tried giving her some herbal?” Harry murmurs as he works alongside the doctor. “Echinacea or astragulus might work better than you think.”

“She doesn’t want it,” Allison mumbles in return. “She heard through the grapevine that the darkies use it and doesn’t want anything to do with it anymore.”

Suddenly there is a commotion outside, shouts and hollers of, _“Doc Allison, come quick!”_ Looking up from his work, glasses almost falling off his nose, Allison hurries towards the door, throwing it open, face blanching when he sees who it is. “Harry, quickly! Grab my bag.”

Doing as he is told, (fingers steady, steady, steady) Harry follows Allison outside to a dirty wagon pulling up to Allison’s house. Harry is startled to see Harriet and the boy whom had been with her at Boone Hall clamber off the seat of it. The boy rushes to Allison (easy, familiar, did they know each other already?) and says breathlessly, “It’s one of the passengers, we tried transporting him last night but he got brought back.”

“And your safety?”

“Uncompromised. We hid and watched.”

“Watched what?”

The boy gestures towards the back of the wagon where Harriet is holding a boy’s hand to her chest, softly speaking into his ear and crying quietly. Harry, who has been standing dumbly the whole time, quickly approaches them. Locking eyes with Harriet, he sees nothing but worry and grief.

It was the boy… the slave. The one who had followed Harriet and the boy into the woods.

For a moment, something in the boy’s face catches Harry. They lock eyes, and then the boy looks away. Steel resistance is found in the dark orbs, a sort of strength Harry can only guess grew out of pure necessity. His hair is dark, cheeks pale and sharp. His chest heaves, and Harry can’t look anymore at the face that holds so much pain.

Harry looks down.

It is not a sight Harry wants to see. The slave lies on his side, face marred with scratches and cuts, facing Harriet… but on his back. On his back it is worse. On his back there must be thirty long, deep slashes, all oozing with blood and puss, already well on its way to infection. Allison swears underneath his breath and pushes Harry aside, working fast, hands steady, moving to stop the bleeding. Harry springs into action, working quickly alongside Allison, but his mind is in another place. _How can they do this? How can they do this to another human being?_

The slave cries out in pain. Harry doesn’t even want to think about how bad it must hurt. The slave is whimpering softly, and Harriet grabs his hand. “Zayn, honey. ‘S okay. You’re okay darlin’. You’re okay.” Harry works quickly to administer laudanum onto a cloth, hands steady as he holds the cloth over Zayn’s face. Their eyes lock again. Harry realizes with a start that this is only the second time he’s looked into the eyes of a black person before.

“Louis, hand me that bottle,” Allison is shouting (why was he shouting, no one was speaking), and Louis does. As soon as it’s in Allison’s hands he slathers it on the wounds (hands steady, always steady). “Harry, help me carry him inside.” As Harry scoops the boy up into his arms, Zayn whimpers, Harry feels his heart break even more. Louis and Harriet follow him inside, Harriet sniffing and Louis looking close to tears himself. His eyes look tired, the blue in them faded- a washed out version of seafoam. He glances at Harry, eyebrows furrowed. In his eyes, Harry thinks he can see words, words like _it isn’t fair,_ but also words like, _this was bound to happen._

Allison is mumbling to himself as Harry lays Zayn down gently on the surgery bed. “We’ll bandage him up and keep him here,” Allison is saying. “Horlbeck won’t be happy-”

As if on cue, a loud shout and a rumble (announcing another wagon) come from outside. Allison and Harry lock eyes and Harry feels panic rising in his throat, Allison turns to Louis and Harriet, opening a supply closet and motioning for them to get inside. “Push on the back wall. It’s a trapdoor. Close it behind you,” he whispers as he shuts the door. Harry’s hands are shaking as he busies himself with paperwork that doesn’t need to be sorted. He wants to ask, wants to question Allison- _tell me about this train, why is there a trapdoor, why do they have to hide, why was he whipped_ \- but a part of him halfway knows and he doesn’t really want the truthful answer.

The door to Allison’s house swings open, banging against the wall, making Harry jump. It’s John Horlbeck- tall, booming, majestic. His ancestors built South Carolina and Horlbeck makes it his duty to inform everyone of it. He spots Harry and raises an eyebrow, then sees Allison (standing protectively in front of Zayn, arms crossed, Harry sees his shoulders shivering) and growls. “You got my nigger?” Horlbeck spits into Allison’s face, inches away from his nose, Harry feels like he’s going to puke.

“He needs medical attention, John,” Allison says softly, Harry wonders- briefly- for a moment if that was what Jesus was like in the Garden of Gethsamne, soft and quiet when everyone was shouting at him. “He might die if we don’t-”

“He ain’t your _property,_ Robert,” Horlbeck shouts, grabbing the Doctor’s collar and lifting him off the ground. “And it’s my business what I do with my own negroes.”

“And it’s my business what I do with my patients.”

“He’s not your patient!” Horlbeck roars, tossing Allison onto the ground and circling the bed, slapping Zayn on the back. Harry winces, gagging at the thought of the pain that powerful blow would bring to the boy. Horlbeck turns to Harry, crossing his arms, chin lifted, eyebrows raised. “And you.” Horlbeck advances towards Harry, so close, so close, breathing into his face, Harry thinks he’s going to throw up, “You’re Rutledge’s nephew.”

There’s a beat of silence before Harry swallows and whimpers, “Yes.”

Horlbeck laughs harshly, cruelly, leaning into Harry’s bubble of fear and personal space before murmuring, “And what do you think about all of this?” he waves an arm around the room- Allison standing protectively in front of Zayn, who was whimpering softly on the bed.

There is so much silence and tensions in the room that Harry feels like he’s suffocating. He can barely breathe but he bravely straightens and looks Horlbeck in the eye. “I think we are _all_ equal,” he responds evenly. “Galatians 3:28. It’s in your Bible. Go read it.”

Horlbeck’s face transforms into a thousand different emotions, hatred, anger, fear, confusion. He blinks and watches Harry warily, turning back and looking at Allison. Several times he looks ready to say something; he takes a breath, but no words come out. He runs a hand through his hair, fingers shaking. Harry doesn’t know if it’s from anger or fear.

“You bring him back,” he finally states to Allison. “In two days. You bring him home.”

Allison nods. No more words are spoken, but Horlbeck nods and turns, stomping out of the house. A few moments later they hear his wagon pulling away.

Allison looks at Harry with wonder in his eyes and shakes his head. “You better go home, son,” he says softly, whispering, almost, as if the moment is too fragile. “Get your things.”

Harry does as he’s told.

**\-----**

Harry arrives back at Hampton at about eight P.M. As soon as his horse stops outside the Plantation, as soon as he hands the reigns to Samson, the front door is thrown open and Uncle Rutledge steps out, chest heaving, face dripping with sweat.

“Harry!” he yells, screaming with anxiety and fear in his voice. “Harry, what have you done? _What have you done_?”

It’s only then that the weight of Harry’s actions catch up to him. He stood up for a darkie, a Negro. He chose someone of a different race over someone of his own. He can hear his mum’s words echoing, rattling around in his brain _it just isn’t done here, it just isn’t done._ He exhales sharply, feeling the tension in the air around him. Uncle Rutledge reaches his nephew, hands reaching out for him, “Horlbeck’s been by, was swearing up and down about he was going to murder us all once he got his nigger back.” Rutledge’s fingers brush over Harry’s jacket, then reach up to his nephews face (contorted in grief and anxiety). “Oh, son…” His voice trails off as he sighs, then pats Harry’s shoulder. “It’s alright. Horlbeck is all bark, no bite.” Rutledge locks eyes with Harry and shrugs. “But you’ll have to leave. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

He turns away from Harry, marching up the front steps to Hampton once more, beckoning Harry along with him. “Mae’s already packed your things, crying up a storm in there, don’t _ask_ me why I married that woman because I have no idea why, but I really can’t poke fun of her choices because I’m one of them,” Rutledge is rattling on and on (as per normal), but when he turns to face Harry is eyes are glassy. “I have a cousin,” he says breathlessly. “Who lives in Iowa.” With trembling fingers, Harry receives the pre-offered letter from Rutledge and turns it over in his hands, thin paper, short words written on the inside: _Mary, please take him. Keep him safe. Trouble brewing. Railroad end soon. Love, R._ On the front is written _Mary Edwards Walker_ in short, hurried handwriting. Harry knew what his Uncle’s writing usually looks like, he’s received dozens of letters from him before, and looking at the scrawled writing, he knows it’s not his Uncle’s best. He looks up from the letter in his trembling hands as they enter the house, Uncle Rutledge turns to Harry, looks up at him, sighs. “Go say goodbye to your Aunt,” Rutledge murmurs. “Do it quickly.”

Everything is happening so fast, Harry thinks. He can hardly breathe. _Why is he sending me away? What have I done wrong?_ But it’s ironic, isn’t it, because he knows (he knew, he knows, he will always know) why Uncle Rutledge is sending him away (why Uncle Rutledge sent him away), what he’s doing wrong (what he did wrong). This is South Carolina, November, 1860, and it’s all coming together so quickly and messily Harry doesn’t even know where to turn.

He finds his aunt eventually, holding a sweater of Harry’s in one hand and a Bible in the other. As soon as she sees her nephew she bursts into tears (Harry does, too, but he’ll never admit it) and rushes towards him, all watery and unfamiliar and Harry wonders briefly for a moment why everything he ever loves gets taken away from him. Auntie Mae cries into his shoulder for a few more moments, Harry squeezes her (tightly, so tightly, please don’t make me leave, please don’t let me go) and then releases her as she steps away from him, wiping tears away from her pudgy cheeks and smiling a watery smile. “Mary will take good care of you,” Auntie Mae whispers, ( _but I don’t want Mary, I want you, I want Uncle Rutledge, I want this life_ ) she sniffs and hands him the sweater and Bible. “Keep safe, darling, alright?” Her voice cracks at the end and her eyes fill with more tears immediately.

He nods, throat too tight and too painful to speak. He feels so lost, and alone, he thinks that if grey was a colour it would be personified into this moment. No one is really telling him anything, but of course he knows. Of course everyone understands. His radical ideas finally came back to bite him and now he’s having to lick his wounds. His aunt gives him one last kiss on his cheek before she whispers in his ear, “Don’t forget,” visions of window seats, of brown hair, of Edgar Allen Poe, of cotton and bonfires filter lazily through his mind, “Don’t forget where you belong.”

His uncle gives him an awkward hug before sighing and handing Harry a packet full of what he can only assume is money. “Please… Don’t hold it against me,” his voice is pleading and tight. “I-I…” His voice trails off as tears slip down his pudgy cheeks. “Everything… It’s all falling apart.” His eyes lock with Harry and he sighs. “Please don’t hold it against me.”

“I would never,” Harry answers honestly. Rutledge picks up his suitcase and leads him out to the waiting carriage. The boy— Louis. Louis is standing beside the carriage, looking on sadly as Rutledge pats Harry’s shoulder and as Harry tries his hardest not to cry. “Mary will take good care of you,” Rutledge murmurs, as if he’s trying to convince himself of it. “Louis… Louis will take you there, make sure you’re safe.” His uncle smiles sadly, sniffing and then exhaling slowly. “I love you, son. Don’t forget that.”

Harry’s throat is too tight.

He doesn’t respond.

It isn’t until the carriage is pulling away from Hampton that he looks back with watery eyes and begins to cry. It’s all so scary, and he’s almost twenty- it shouldn’t be frightening, but it is. He has never felt more alone in his life than he does at this very moment; suitcase in hand, letter addressed to a distant relative, Bible and sweater. It is then that the hatred begins to creep into his body, hatred for people like Horlbeck and Greenhow, hatred for people who would even think about mutilating another human being’s body. Hatred for people who tear him away from his loved ones, hatred for diseases that make your mother and sister die, hatred for slavery, hatred for shackles, hatred for chains. As Hampton Plantation disappears from sight, he wonders briefly if he’ll ever see it again, if any of them will ever get to come back.

Louis clamps a hand over Harry’s knee, directing the horses onto the main highway. “You’ll come home someday,” he says slowly and softly, as if he’s lying his way into a promise. It’s dark outside, the moonlight making him look at least thirty, when Harry knows he’s probably only a few years older than him. Noticing Harry’s apprehension, Louis gulps and repeats, “You will. You will come home someday.”

Harry’s not even sure where home is anymore.

Yet something in his gut tells him to keep going, to persevere. His heart is thumping in his chest as he turns breathlessly towards the horizon and exhales his worries into the stars. He needs to keep going. He needs to be strong. He wants to look back on this moment and claim that he kept it all together. He wants to keep his promises.

So he does.


	2. part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is going to be okay,” Louis is saying- forcefully, but Harry’s not stupid- he can see it in his eyes, the tears, his orbs are glassy and round and large and everything his happening all at once. There’s a smell of smoke and rain in the air, mixed with the early morning sky- all tiger orange, striped with purples and pinks, Harry thinks its sad that beauty is always associated with pain and pain is always associated with peace.

They travel through the night until they reach Cullowhee, Harry slipping fitfully out of slumber and back into reality until Louis shakes him awake, grabbing the luggage and personal belongings, “C’mon, let’s go. Train’s about to leave.”

Sleepy as he is, Harry watches Louis carefully as he disappears behind the carriage, whispering to someone. And, well. Harry’s not dumb. He watches carefully through hooded eyelids as a dark shadow follows Louis, climbing out of the back of the carriage and crawling into a barrel which Louis seals. Harry watches as Louis rolls the barrel into the train, into the car labeled “Cargo”. When Louis returns to lead Harry to their cab, he doesn’t say anything.

But Harry knows better.

They are on the train for three days, bumpy roads, smelly feet, muffled tears. For the first approximate 24 hours Harry tries to hide his tears from Louis, sniffing into his sweater and trying to hold his cries in his throat. After that, Louis simply sighs and yanks Harry’s hands away from his mouth, holding them into his own and looking the younger boy straight in the face. “You’re going to be okay,” he says firmly, again and again, again and again- he must say it at least twenty times. “You are going to be **okay**.” And he lets Harry cry, he lets him sob into his shoulder, doesn’t mind when snot and tears stain his jacket permanently. He snaps at the conductor when he asks Harry to ‘please be more quiet’, he offers Harry chocolate and reads to him from Psalms. He seems to understand Harry’s eternal grief after losing a mother, a sister and now an uncle and aunt, even though Harry’s never spoken to him about it.

On the second day, they play cards and talk about their favorite colors. Harry says he wants to be a doctor. “You’d be good at being a doctor, Harry,” Louis says softly. “You want to help people.” Harry blushes, says he loves the ocean, says his favorite color is green, says he wishes he was braver. Louis says he wants to be an artist. “You’d be good at being an artist, Lou,” Harry says softly. “You see things that aren’t there.” Louis blushes, says he loves the mountains, says his favorite color is blue, says he wishes he was smarter. They spend the whole day playing cards and trying to catch the grapes that they throw at each other’s mouths.

It isn’t until the third day that Harry asks Louis, “Who’s that person that you hid in the barrel?” The funny thing is, well. He knows. He could never forget the way Zayn held himself… Tall, majestic. Like royalty. Even in the dim shadows at Boone Hall, he could identify Zayn then, and it is no different now. He knew who Louis had hid in the barrel, and as Louis looks up from his cards (he’s terrible at holding them, Harry can see his hand- all Kings and Queens, two of hearts, one of spades), he smirks. “I think you know, Harry,” Louis says slowly.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Harry presses. “Just because I think I know doesn’t mean you think I know, you know.”

Louis sighs, exasperatedly and pushes himself up onto his elbows. “King of hearts?”

“Go fish,” Harry responds dutifully, frowning and then saying sharply, “ _Leeewwwwiiissss._ ”

“ _Haaarrrrooollllddddd_ ,” Louis mimics childishly, smirking when Harry sniffs and pretends to be hurt. “You know who it is,” his voice is low and full of timbre. “You’re not stupid.” The way he looks into Harry’s eyes, he knows. _Zayn_.

They don’t speak any more about it, but when Louis disappears for a half hour and doesn’t say anything when he returns, Harry knows. When Louis slips pieces of his bread into a handkerchief, claiming he’s “saving it for later”, Harry gives him a piece of his own. When Louis fills an empty, used beer bottle lying underneath one of the seats and fills it with water, Harry hands him his own canteen. Louis always takes them. He never tells Harry what he does with them.

But Harry knows.

\------

_December 19th, 1860 - Hopkinton, Iowa._

The train pulls into Hopkinton at six in the evening. Just before it rolls to a stop, Louis disappears for the last time. Harry doesn’t know what he says, but he imagines him leaning down to the barrel and whispering, _Meet us at the tavern on main,_ or, _I’ll come get you soon._ When Louis returns, he smiles at Harry and hands him a woolen scarf. “It’s not South Carolina anymore, Harry,” he scolds. “There’s snow here. Real, actual, live snow.”

Harry’s about to say, _Snow is not alive, Lewis,_ when the train gives a little heave and a ho and brakes noisily. Louis grabs both of their suitcases and leads them off the train, and, true to his word, the small town is dusted in white. Harry smiles a little sadly, thinking to not even a month ago when he’d embarked in Charleston- all warm like honey. Now Hopkinton- all cold like ice. There are no slaves here, it seems like a small enough town, even, as Louis leads the way through streets, staring at the letter Rutledge had given Harry. “Here,” he says breathlessly when they reach a little tiny yellow house, tucked beside a white church, with candles in the windows. Harry can vaguely see _Albert + Mary_ stenciled onto the side of the house as Louis exhales and knocks on the door with mittened hands.

“Whatever happens,” Louis says softly- so softly, Harry almost wonders if he’s imagined it. “Whatever happens, I want you to know that-”

The door swings open abruptly and there stands a relatively broad-shouldered woman, with tight braids wound around her head and glasses perched on the tip of her nose. But that isn’t the most surprising thing. The woman is dressed in _men’s clothing._ From head to toe, she is dressed in trousers with a suit jacket that looks like it stepped straight out of Harry’s closet. He barely has time to think before she is speaking sharply into their faces, “If you’re here to yell at me for my encounter with the college, you can kindly take yourselves and your little round butts off my property before I get my gun and shoot you myself!”

Harry’s eyes widen, half of him still running on default mode, feet itching to run, but Louis holds his ground. “Ma’am, we’re here to see Mary Edwards Walker?”

The woman huffs and crosses her arms. Harry notices her feet were bare. “I am she,” she snaps. “Whaddya want?”

“The owner of Hampton Plantation… Rutledge? I believe he’s a distant relative of yours?” The woman’s harsh features soften. “He sent you this.” Louis hands her the letter. The woman grabs it and her eyes fly from Louis to Harry, to Louis and back to Harry.

“Well, I’ll be,” she murmurs softly, stepping closer to Harry. Her hand lifts into the air, inches away from his face, as if wanting to trace his features, fingers trembling. They land instead on her mouth, eyes furrowed in grief. Tears fill her eyes and she exhales shakily, opening the letter, looking back to Harry. Reading the letter, looking back to Harry.

“You’re Anne’s boy?” she says softly, voice filled with wonder.

He nods.

One lonely tear trails down Mary’s face as she sighs, then abruptly pulls Harry close to her, hugging him and patting his back. She smells so much like his mother, feels so much like Auntie Mae, his brain is telling him _run away, run away as fast as you can, you’re only going to get hurt._ By this time he is so used to getting lost, to being hurt, his first instinct is to push her away, but his heart tells him to hold on. She whispers, “Come inside,” and they follow her into the small house.

It is quaint and lovely. It smells like vanilla and he tries not to let it wash over him, but it does. He can practically see his mum at the stove, steam forming little droplets on her face, looking up as he enters and smiling, Gemma playing at her feet with a ragdoll. He can practically hear the soft hum of his mum’s out-of-key music filtering on minty breath as he hugs him and kisses him soundly on the cheek- back when he was young and stupid he would’ve groaned and pushed her away, whining playfully, _Mum, don’t kiss me like that,_ but now. Now he would cry like a baby and let her kiss him all she wanted, and he thinks that’s what’s messed up about it. He thinks- no. He knows. He knows that you never really appreciate something until it’s gone, so he tries to hold onto the moment of stepping inside Mary’s house.

As Harry steps into the warm building, as she takes their coats and dusts them off, as she pours them each some tea and motions them into the yellow kitchen, saying, “You’re just in time for supper,” he immediately feels settled. He and Louis sit, side by side, at the table as she brings a bowl of soup out for either of them and some freshly baked biscuits. Without even speaking, Harry hands a piece to Louis, who folds it into his handkerchief. Louis smiles.

“Albert!” Mary yells loudly from the kitchen. “Its suppertime!” The stairs creak in reply, and a tall, lanky man with elvish ears and a long, overgrown beard steps into the room. He waves at Harry and Louis, before motioning outside and saying, “Should I get the help?”

Mary nods ferociously as she carries a steaming bowl of vegetables over to the table, “He’ll want to eat outside, but tell him to come in.” Albert nods and makes his way out into the snow. Louis and Harry gaze after him, Louis whispers into Harry’s ear, “And this is just Iowa. Imagine what it’s like in Canada.”

Mary dishes them both heaping servings of food, not saying much until Albert and a younger boy- about Harry’s age? with blonde hair and flushed cheeks reappear in the dining room. “Sit down, sit down!” Mary says enthusiastically, waving towards the other three chairs available. Albert takes the one next to her, folding his napkin and digging into his food straightaway, while the other, younger, blonde boy stands awkwardly.

Mary looks up from her task of dishing food and sighs. “Niall, come on, darling,” she says. “Come and sit.”

“N-no, ma’am,” Niall says nervously, eyes flitting back and forth between all four people. “I’ve been working all day, ma’am, I’m a right mess, these are lovely chairs, I’ll get ‘em all dirty,” he rambles. Harry thinks he sounds like he is from up North.

Mary laughs (and it’s a beautiful laugh, really. Tinkly. It sounds like silver). “These chairs have had people’s behinds sitting on them, Niall. Your behind is no different than anyone else’s.”

Louis blushes.

Niall looks very uncomfortable and extremely out of place as he takes a seat opposite Louis, beside Albert. Mary sits down, satisfied, and then slaps Albert on the arm as she notices him eating. “John Albert Miller!” she says loudly. “We haven’t prayed, you donkey!”

Louis giggles.

Albert sighs and places his biscuit back down on his plate, looking an ‘awful lot like a chipmunk’, as Harry would confide later. Mary nods and folds her hands quickly. “Dear Lord, thank you for this bountiful meal. Bless it to our bodies. In your name we pray, Amen.” The table echoes her words. Niall crosses himself.

“Niall, these are our guests,” Mary motions towards Harry and Louis after an interlude of silence. “They hail from South Carolina.” Niall smiles shyly and waves a little. Mary nods and stuffs half a cucumber in her mouth. “Niall is from Nova Scotia.”

Niall, as Mary refers to him, is quite pale. He has splotchy skin and rosy cheeks. Harry can tell he’s worked outside for the better part of the day. His piercing blue eyes meet Harry’s, and beneath them Harry thinks he can see a million different ideas: sparkling, bubbling at the surface. He seems intelligent, smart. Polite.

Underneath Harry’s gaze, Niall shifts awkwardly and clears his throat.

Louis slurps his water.

Albert fishes a piece of hair out from his soup.

Mary reads her pocket-watch.

Harry sighs.

**\-------**

“Well, at any rate, it really doesn’t matter how long you stay here,” Mary says breathlessly as she hauls both Louis and Harry’s suitcases up the stairs. “You’re a medical student, aren’t you?”

Harry nods hurriedly, jolting as Louis pokes him in his backside _she can’t see you, you idiot_ “Yes ma’am, I am.” Harry confirmed.

“And you were apprenticing with whom?”

“Dr. Robert Turner Allison, ma’am.”

Mary enters into a small room and places Harry’s suitcase on a small, tidy bed and Louis’ on the sofa. “Ah, Allison,” she murmurs, opening the window curtains so Harry and Louis can see the tiny town of Hopkinton, darkly luminous in the glowing moonlight. Turning back to them, her eyes look full of memories- glassy. “He’s one of those people you just… never forget.”

Mary sighs, turning on a gas lamp, perched on the edge of a desk beneath the window. As the light flickers in the small room, Harry wonders briefly how old she is. She can’t be much older than him, but she looks years wiser and more experienced. Her eyes narrow as she stares at the flame, enchanted by it. Moments pass before she snaps out of it, looking at Louis, blinking rapidly. “I’m going to assume that you do, indeed, have a runaway with you at this very moment.”

Louis gulps. Harry’s never seen him so taken aback.

Mary smiles softly and then slaps a hand against her trouser clad thigh. “Tell him to come to the back door at midnight. Folks around here don’t really care what I do anymore, but.” She exhales, eyes once again catching the lamp, transfixed by its rays. “You never know these days,” she finishes softly.

“Of course, ma’am,” Louis nods, exiting the room. Harry and Mary stand in silence for a few long moments before Harry dares to ask, “Can you… I mean. Would you mind-”

“Telling you about your mother?” Mary finishes for him, smirking as she turns back to him and straightens his suspenders. Harry’s only known her for a little over an hour but he already has the impression that Mary Edwards Walker is just one of those people who knows you better than you know yourself.

“When I was little, your mother… Well,” Mary chuckles. “I don’t remember a life without her. She…” Mary’s voice drifts off into a thoughtful silence. “Her brother, Rutledge. He was my older brother’s best friend. They were always together. Always,” Mary waves a hand. “Me and your mother, Anne… I mean. She was 25 years older than me, but we were the only girls. Your mother didn’t have a sister and mine was long married. So we stuck together, us two. The boys were constantly playing war or pulling pranks but your mother and I,” Mary smiles, shaking her head. “She taught me everything. My mama was very sickly when I was a child- so your mother, Anne, she taught me how to sew, how to cook, clean, fall in love, kiss, dance. There was never any age barrier between us. We just… connected.” Mary’s voice trails off as she studies her hands. “She was like… an aunt. Or a mentor. She was a governess for me- she taught me everything I know.

“But if there was one thing that Anne taught me, it was about myself. About my femininity. We would always mock the boys and complain about how there were no worthy Prince Charming’s down in little South Carolina,” Mary laughs. “And then, one day, she just meets this dashing young man from London, and she’s head over heels, and of course I am, too, because she was my idol and I did everything that she did.” Mary sniffs and glances up at Harry with a watery smile. A tear tracks down her face and she shrugs, “They just packed up and left. I never saw her again.”

Harry’s brow furrows. “Did you know about… Did she… Write you?”

Mary smiles. “Oh, yes. At first we wrote every single day, but, you know. People change. Life goes on. After a while it was once every month, then every other month.” Mary looks out the window, gaze glazed over with ambition and memories. She smiles softly and fondly as if remembering, saying, “When you were born, though. I was six years old and I just remember writing her and saying, ‘oh, you’ll have to name him after me’- you know, just joking and all,” Mary smiles- she laughs, but it’s choked and harsh and raw. “And then I get a letter from Des and he tells me you were born, healthy little baby boy, 7.5 pounds. Harry Edward Styles,” her voice cracks as she says it and Harry’s world falls into place around him. Mary Edwards Walker. Harry Edward Styles. He looks at the woman in front of him and feels more at home than he has in years; this is his namesake, this is his mum’s best friend.

His throat is painfully tight as he asks, “Who told you about Des?”

Mary glances at him fleetingly. “Oh, I always knew,” she says harshly. Harry doesn’t blame her. “He was just that sort of man. Dangerously enticing and terribly alluring.” Her eyes glaze over again, full of memories. “She didn’t like to talk about it. She never told me, straight out, but she always used to mention him and then suddenly she acted like it had just been you three- her, Gemma and you, all along.”

There’s an awkward pause and Harry knows the question hanging in the air- _Who told you when she was gone?_ But she doesn’t answer it straightaway.

“I was at the Geneva Medical College in New York when I got the letter. It was yellow paper,” her voice cracks and Harry can see her fingers trembling from where they lay splayed against the wooden surface of the desk. “And I knew something was wrong as soon as she saw it, because she hated the color yellow, it was her least favorite color. And I opened it and it wasn’t even from anyone in England, just, you know, yellow and boring and that’s maybe what hurt the most because then I knew she hadn’t even told you about me,” she throws a glance at him and he feels a stab of guilt even though it wasn’t his fault. “And all it said was **_ANNE AND GEMMA DECEASED. MUCH LOVE. R._** ” Mary shrugs. “After that, Rutledge and I always kept up a casual correspondence, you know. The last remnant of Anne we had left, I suppose.”

Harry feels like the breath has been knocked out of his lungs. He doesn’t even know what to say, but after the revealing of so much history between Mary and his mother, he feels like he doesn’t really need to say anything at all. So he doesn’t. They stand, side by side, in silence, and it should be awkward but it’s not. They stand until they hear Niall calling from downstairs, “Mary! Mary, it’s the package!”

Mary’s transformation is spectacular- glazed, distant, to perfectly _there_ and present all in a matter of moments. She turns and exits the small room precisely, clambering down the steps. Harry follows her, reaching the main floor in a few seconds. Louis is opening the back door for someone, Niall motioning Mary towards them. It doesn’t take Harry long to figure out who it is.

Zayn looks sunken and hollow, and Harry tries not to think how it would feel to be locked inside a barrel for almost four days. His limbs look ashen and devastatingly pale, and he leans on Louis for support- but even so, his chin is lifted high, eyes smoldering and brave. Harry’s memory flickers back to the day on the plantation, watching him, Louis and Harriet disappear into the woods- royalty, majestic.

Mary’s face is flickering into a thousand different emotions as Louis sets Zayn down on the sofa, hand covering her mouth as her eyes study his musky limbs. It’s then that Harry realizes that he can do something, so he does. “Hot water and some warm blankets,” he says quickly- not harshly, but his words startle Louis and Mary into looking at him sharply. Niall’s the only one who is seemingly unaffected by his words, because he springs into action as Louis moves away from Zayn cautiously. Soon a bucket of steaming water is beside Harry’s knees as he takes Zayn’s pulse and temperature. The boy’s eyes are fluttering in and out of consciousness, but every so often they will open and lock with Harry’s and he can feel a pang ripple through his chest.

Delicately placing a hot rag drenched in warm water on Zayn’s thigh and moving it downward, rubbing and massaging, Harry smiles when he sees color start to seep back into Zayn’s flesh. When his work is finished, he covers him in three different blankets and hands the bucket to Niall, who moves to empty it.

Mary is smirking behind him when he turns around. “Good work, Doctor Styles,” she remarks in a teasing voice, but something in her eyes is reverent and remarkably tacit. Louis is the same way, standing behind her. The feeling that floods through Harry’s chest confuses him, pride. Joy. He wants to say, “ _That’s why I went into medicine,”_ but that would be a lie. He went into medicine because he didn’t want more people that he loved to die under his watch.  

Without saying another word Harry goes back to his bedroom. He undresses and crawls into bed, silently still, and he doesn’t say anything until he hears Louis creeping back into the room, trying to be quiet (and, well. Louis’ good at a lot of things but playing cards and trying to keep quiet are not two of them). Harry rolls over and smirks as Louis trips over his own feet and lands, sprawling, on the sofa. “You alright?” he says and laughs quietly when Louis jolts.

“Fine,” Louis responds tightly. “Mary’s got Zayn all bundled up downstairs,” he yawns halfway through his sentence, “And she sent me to bed.”

Harry wants to ask a lot of things- _how did you get Zayn away from Horlbeck? Will he be okay? Why is he not as black as some of the other slaves? Do you believe in slavery? Why do you call him a package and yourself a conductor and this whole mess a railroad?_ But when he asks, “Is Zayn going to be alright?” There is no answer. Louis is already fast asleep.

Harry follows his example.

**\----**

He wakes before everyone else, opening his eyes sleepily and snuffling a little bit in the early morning sunlight. The room is surprisingly warm, his body heat keeping him toasty as he lies underneath the wool blankets and stretches. He can see out of the window, through the filmy white curtains, to the town of Hopkinton below. The sun is peeking over the houses and farms, sending golden rays of warmth over the snow and sparkles, shooting glitters of diamonds from the white blanket of snow to greet him. _Good morning!_ It seems to say. How deceiving, Harry thinks. First in South Carolina- with big, white fields of cotton and rolling roads that go on for days; now here in Hopkinton, with snowy white hills that beckon you to make snow angels in them. How utterly deceiving.

For the Feeling is present in both places.

Back in South Carolina, he’d often mused and wondered about The Feeling. In Iowa, the Feeling was still present, but it was different. It was personified in the way Mary was outcasted by the various members of the town, in the way people claimed to be for freedom but wouldn’t let Niall (an immigrant from another country) take communion at the local church. The Feeling was alive and well all over America, Harry realized. It’s just that, people didn’t notice it that much unless you were from the opposite side of the bench. If you were from the North-  places like Canada, Massachusetts, England, Iowa… it was easy to see the Feeling in the South- big, fat plantation owners cracking a whip over their poor lowly slaves. If you were from the South, however- places like South Carolina, Georgia, Texas, Florida… it was easy to see the Feeling in the North- abolitionists shouting fire and brimstone at no one listening, poor beggars crowding the filthy streets. Harry figures he’s lucky. At least, that’s what Louis told him on the train. _“You’re lucky because you’ve seen both. You’re at an advantage because it comes easily to you, to see faults and praises in both sides. It’s taken me years to accomplish that.”_

Harry crawls out of bed and closes the curtains more so that the sun won’t wake Louis up. Shivering as he climbs down the steps to the main floor, he creeps past Mary’s bedroom (from which he can hear soft snores) and past Zayn on the couch.

Yet something stops him.

He turns back around to see that Zayn is already looking at him; dark, brooding eyes boring into Harry’s as he whispers, “Good morning.” Zayn doesn’t say anything; his expression is hard to read, so he adds hastily, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you, I-”

“It’s fine,” Zayn responds. It’s the first time Harry’s heard him speak, and, well. It’s strange. He thinks back to all the slaves of Rutledge’s and others that he’s met and known. He wonders if any of them have ever spoken directly to him without being asked a question, besides Harriet. Presently, Zayn is still staring at him. Harry gulps. “Would you like some tea?” he squeaks.

Zayn shrugs. “I’ve never had tea.”

 _Dammit dammit dammit._ “What about coffee?”

“Never had that either.”

Harry’s chest is heaving up and down now, he feels like he just told a blind woman, _can’t you see?_ Or a lame man, _get up and do something!_ Sweat is trickling down his spine as his hands curl and uncurl lamely, he’s about to hyperventilate when Zayn surprises him by laughing. It’s small and quiet, just a little snuffly giggle but his eyes are crinkled up in hope and Harry can’t help but laugh like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

He’s been laughing for what feels like ages before he realizes how ridiculous he looks and clears his throat. “I’ll go get some milk, then,” he nods, face perfectly reverent and stern. He does his duty (spilling more than half a jug on the floor in the kitchen, but, _excuse you_ , some things are challenging for a soon-to-be medical graduate) and brings a cup back to Zayn, lifting it to his lips and helping him drink it. Harry perches beside Zayn on the little stool Mary had brought over last night, tapping his feet and looking around the room. “Would you like a book to read?”

“I don’t know how.”

That does it. Harry sighs exasperatedly as Zayn bursts into laughter again at the sight of Harry near tears. “It’s not funny!” Harry cries, but a smirk is pulling his way up onto his face. “I just insulted you, what, _three times_ , and you think it’s funny?!”

Zayn shrugs and continues to laugh. “I don’t mind… Harry? Is that your name? Harry?”

Harry nods, then smiles softly and extends a hand. “Harry Edward Styles, pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Zayn looks alarmed at the proffered hand, and this time, Harry knows why. He’s never shaken a slave’s hand before, and even though Zayn doesn’t _look_ fully like a slave, he knows he was at one point in time. Zayn’s eyes fly between Harry’s hand to Harry’s eyes and back again. Now it’s Zayn turn to awkwardly swallow, but he nods determinedly and, with trembling fingers, reaches out and clasps Harry’s palm.

A sound behind them startles them and they both turn to see Niall, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and yawning at the pair of the them as he makes his way to the kitchen. Harry and Zayn watch him like hawks as he reaches into the icebox and retrieves a pint of vodka, unscrewing it and gulping down at least half a cup. Harry’s jaw drops down to the floor. “Do you… I mean,” he fumbles. “Do you go a day without drinking any sort of alcoholic substance?”

Niall looks at him with a blank expression insinuating, _are you serious,_ huffing, “I’m from Nova Scotia.”

Zayn and Harry watch dumbly as Niall takes another swing of the vodka without wincing, sighing in contentment as he places it back in the icebox. “Fair enough,” says Zayn.

+

“It is well that war is so terrible, or we should grow fond of it.”  
\-- Robert E. Lee

+

_December 20th, 1860 – Hopkinton, Iowa_

It is five days before Christmas when the world changes.

Harry and Louis are outside in the snow, building a snowman with a frozen carrot they found lying in the garbage pile and making snow angels. Niall’s shoveling snow from the porch; it’s dark, the sky is all alit with beautiful, bright stars- “You can’t see these stars from the city,” Louis’ saying. “Not in Charleston.” Harry laughs and says that you can see the man in the moon’s nose hair from way out here if you look hard enough; if you squint. Niall laughs loudly and then they’re off, pelting each other with snow balls and yelling obscenities until Mary yells from inside the house, “Shut up, you lot, I live beside a _church!_ ”

They are waist deep in snow and laughs of mirth when a commotion rings at the end of the street. Hopkinton is a tiny town, only about 200 people living in it (as Mary put it so quaintly), so when there’s shouts and yells and screams being heard at the end of the street, they turn. They panic. The snowballs drop from their hands and the smiles slowly slide off their faces and melt into the snow; Mary comes onto the porch, dressed in a blue taffeta dress (she only wears women’s clothing on Tuesdays and Thursdays) hands clutched in front of her.

Harry’s always heard it said that, in the few moments before you die, time slows. People always say you see your life flash before your eyes, and in that moment… he can feel his life change. And he doesn’t want it to. He has become so used to everything changing, everything that he loved disappearing from him that the idea, the pure ghost of a shadow in his memory saying _this could be it_ scares him into motion. His feet carry him away from the porch, away from Mary, away from Niall, away from Louis. His breathing is ragged, he can’t see, he just wants to run and never look back, run and never have to admit that life is all about change and every time you set yourself into motion is just another excuse for the horizon to alter.

He doesn’t know where he’s going but he doesn’t stop. In his memory, looking back, he can vaguely hear Niall calling out, _“Harry, stop! Harry, come back!”_ but he doesn’t listen. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. Memories and photographs his mind has taken over the two decades of his life are blocking his senses- _Mother in the kitchen, stirring up soup, playing hide-and-seek in the woods with Gemma, Christmas morning with Uncle Rutledge, nursing the injured deer Gemma found back to health, going to school, acing his first medical exam, getting accepted into King’s, golden coffee-cups, boxes piled high, goodbye hug, “please come back, Harry,” Dr. Inglis’ lectures on the epidemic of cholera, late night knock on the door, black suit, black umbrella, all our condolences, they’re in a better place, his Mum used to tell him he could save people with his talents but he couldn’t even save them._ He runs blindly into Mary’s backyard, collapsing into the snow when his legs give out, cold, ice cold.

A hand grasps his wrist and pulls him up. His lungs are heaving for oxygen, mind cloudy, he can’t breathe, _can’t breathe, **can’t breathe,**_ “Breathe, Harry, c’mon, love,” the voice is saying, everything is fuzzy, _they died painlessly, Harry, you’ve got nothing to worry about,_ ice cold snow creeping down his spine, so tired, _so tired, **so tired,**_ his mind and vision clear and he can see Louis peering at him from above, frown etched on his face.

Louis exhales and a puff of exasperation is released into the air. “You can’t just run, Harry,” he says slowly, and it stings, but it’s slow and gentle and Harry knows Louis isn’t really mad, just frustrated. “You can’t always just run and expect things not to change.”

Harry’s laying in Louis’ lap in the middle of a freezing Iowa winter, staring up at the dark and starry sky when he whispers, “I know.”

“So why do you keep doing it?”

“It’s the only thing I’ve ever known, Louis,” Harry whimpers, he feels so small, he hates feeling like this- childish and diminutive, like he has no say in anything the world throws at him. “I just.” He exhales then, too, but his breath is not exasperation, it is desperation. “I get hurt, if I stay... I get hurt and I get burned. I have scars to prove it.”

Louis’ eyes narrow. “Scars give us proof that we are alive, Harry,” he says softly- still gentle, but they cut to the bone with searing pain. “Scars tell a story.” Reaching down, he forcefully grabs Harry’s hand and intertwines their fingers, squeezing tightly. “Our story.”

He doesn’t say anything after that. He drops Harry’s hand and leaves him lying in the snow. Harry feels cold but he doesn’t have the strength to move. He stares at the stars, knowing everything has changed, but wanting it to remain the same for the rest of eternity.

Eventually he makes his way inside. Zayn is sitting on the ottoman, pretending to read Jane Austen’s _Sense and Sensibility_ (it’s upside down, but Harry would never embarrass Zayn and say so). His eyes briefly flicker up from the book to meet Harry’s, and while he’s sure Zayn’s eyes meet despair and loss, Harry finds something in Zayn’s he did not expect- hope. He’s never thought of himself as selfish, but as he takes off his boots and wanders to find Mary he wonders if maybe he is. Zayn’s never had freedom to let things change and here Harry is complaining about it.

Harry finds Mary in the kitchen, hair flowing freely over her back, wedding ring on the table beside her as she kneads the bread. He stands in front of her for a long time and she does not acknowledge him. Her fingers are tearing at the dough, arm muscles rippling as she pounds it. Her breathing is heavy. She is lost in the turmoil of her mind, Harry thinks. He wonders what she’s thinking. She doesn’t say anything.

She looks up.

“It’s the end of the world, Harry,” Mary says quietly- oh so quietly, so quietly Harry’s heart snatches it with nimble fingers and holds it close like a quilt, voice smooth, trembling. “You know what happened, don’t you?”

The snow is falling gently outside and he can hear Louis and Zayn singing _Camptown Races_ in the living room; the moment is pristine and pure, he wishes he can hold onto it because he knows that in the next moment, everything is going to change. He almost asks Mary to not tell him, he wants to run away, wants to pretend like nothing will ever change because it seems like every time things seem to be doing alright, everything does change and he’s left reeling from the aftershock. But he knows that he has to know, so he takes a deep breath and steadies himself.

“South Carolina’s seceded, Harry. Our nation is torn in two.”

+

“It is forbidden to kill, therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.”  
\- Voltaire

+

December 25th, 1860. Christmas Day. They wake up and pretend that nothing is out of the ordinary, everything is as it should be.  Mary remarks that this is the most men she’s been able to pull in years, they all laugh. Looking around the room, Harry realizes he feels more at home here than he ever has anywhere else. It’s a strange concept, he thinks, because he’s really only known most of these people for almost a week, with the exception of Louis, whom he’s known for a little over that. Each of them get a small present from the others; Niall, a green and silver scarf knitted by Mary and ‘kissed by all of them’, declares Louis. Zayn, a primary children’s book that Harry and Louis found collecting dust at the bottom of Mary’s closet, to teach him how to read, Mary, one of Harry’s old suit jackets that is too small for him anymore. Louis; a sketchbook for drawing. Harry; a copy of Tolstoy’s _War and Peace._ He’s never felt so happy in years.

February 10th, 1861. Mary hears word downtown that the Confederate States of America has now officially formed and now has an official president, Jefferson Davis. While Niall and Zayn mime playing swords in the falling snow outside (seemingly unaffected by the news), Louis watches Harry studiously drinking tea from opposite sides of the couch. “You met him, didn’t you.” Louis says. It’s not a question, so Harry doesn’t answer. But of course he did. Everyone up here, even Mary- God bless her, is so quick to paint an evil face on people like Davis and the Confederacy as a whole, but for Harry it’s not that easy. He knows people like Davis. He glances at Louis, shrugs, and stirs his tea.

February 23rd, 1861. Everything feels like it’s at a standstill, held at a standstill by the pending news, the pending _are we at war, are we not._ No one knows for certain. Eventually Louis gets so frustrated with Harry’s pacing that he grabs him by the collar and shoves him outside to Niall, who tosses him a shovel. Harry helps Niall shovel cow manure for the rest of the evening, it’s awful, stinky work but it helps get him mind off of it. He’s often wondered why Niall looks so peaceful all the time. Now he knows why.

March 5th, 1861. Harry couldn’t sleep at all last night. He creeps downstairs, awake before everyone else (except for Zayn) and grabs him his usual cup of milk. They sit in silence for a long time- Harry’s head on Zayn’s lap, long, dark fingers sifting through Harry’s curls. Harry asks him about his parents. Zayn tells him his mother was black and he never met his father, but he knew he was white. “They call me a ‘mulatto’,” Zayn says slowly. Brokenly. Harry feels guilt creep along his spine. It only makes it worse, really. To think Harry- or, really, _any_ Caucasian person was _that close_ away from being in Zayn’s position. He shifts and says, “I’m sorry.” “It’s not your fault,” Zayn replies. But it kinda is.

April 11th, 1861. It’s somewhere between midnight and heartbreak when Harry bolts awake, screaming. He had a dream someone was pointing a gun at Uncle Rutledge and Auntie Mae (dirty, gritty fingers clasping the trigger, rotting teeth, foaming at the mouth) shouting _“You choose, boy! Freedom or family! Black or white! Right or wrong!”_ Someone is screaming violently at the top of his lungs and it isn’t until Louis turns on the lamp and is shouting, “Mary!! Mary!” frantically that Harry realizes it’s him crying out. Mary stumbles into the room and runs over to Harry, compassion etched into her features. She holds him, pressing his face into her neck and collar like his mother used to do, whispering again and again, “You’re alright, sweetheart. You’re gonna be fine.” She smells like peppermint. He falls asleep.

April 12th, 1861. He wakes up to smell pancakes cooking. It’s the first time he’s ever woken up alone in him and Louis’ room. He clambers downstairs to find everyone sitting at the table, eating in silence. Mary looks up at him and smiles tightly, but it’s not the same. Something’s wrong. Panic spreads through his body as his fingers clasp the railing, his eyes find Louis’ and the look on his friend’s face is not one he wanted to find. Desperation. Defeat. Louis nods, once. Harry knows- it’s over. But not really. Because, in a way, it’s only just begun. Fort Sumter has been attacked. The United States of America is in a civil war.

**\------**

_April 15 th, 1861_

The day that they go to war is blue.

It’s ironic. The sky is a bright blue, like a robin’s egg. The clouds are white and puffy, smiling down on them all- little toy men, marching off to war. They don’t have a choice anymore, do they? Their nation is at war and it’s up to them to stop it.

Harry and Zayn are up before anyone else, as usual, sitting sleepily in the small living room. They don’t say much, but eventually Zayn looks down at Harry (head in his lap, fingers curled into a tight ball) and smiles softly. “You and me,” he says slowly, but Harry doesn’t miss the crack of fear in his voice. “We are going to be heroes.”

Harry nods, chest heaving with power and emotion. This tiny house… filled to the brim with knick knacks of every kind and sort imaginable, oddly decorated couch pillows, Mary’s pianoforte sitting, dusty, in one corner of the room. Memories flow through this place like warm water; late night ghost stories, sitting around the fireplace. Helping Mary form buns in the kitchen, listening to Niall play _Silent Night_ on his guitar. Sitting still as stone on Zayn’s lap as Louis drew a portrait of him, Niall practicing magic tricks, teaching Zayn how to read, feeling safe and warm and loved. The memories are so heavy he can almost taste them. He doesn’t want to leave, because he knows. Everyone- even the President, thinks that the war will only last 90 days, that it’s going to be over before you blink… but Harry has this feeling. That it’s not going to be like that.

So he tries desperately to hold on.

They eat breakfast in silence, warm sunlight streaming through the windows. It’s a beautiful, bright sunny day, and everyone’s trying to lie their way through the goodbye, so no one says anything. Eventually, though, Mary cracks and lets out a small whimper as she drops her fork, tears filling her eyes. Harry’s sitting next to her so he encases her tiny hand in his. “I’m going to miss you,” she says slowly and quietly. “All of you. So much.”

They all don’t try to hide their tears after that.

Later, when it’s time to say goodbye, Mary kisses all of them on both cheeks, and when she gets to Harry everyone else disappears outside. Her hands are tiny in hers, but he can feel the strength in them. His eyes are full of tears; this feels like the fifth goodbye he’s had to bid in three years. “This is not goodbye,” she says firmly, as if she can read his mind. Maybe she can. “This is just a…” Her voice trails off as more tears stream down her face. Harry can’t hold it back anymore, he hugs her tightly and buries his face in her neck. She does the same. When they finally pull back, she whispers, “This is just a ‘see-you-later’, alright?”

“Alright.”

Mary nods and closes her eyes, as if she wants to memorize the moment- his skin on hers, the smell, the sound. Harry kisses her cheek quietly and then disappears out the door. As he’s walking away he looks back, tries to memorize the moment: white picket fence, last traces of snow melting into the earth. This is home. This is home.

He will come home someday.

**\-----**

Liam awakes to Willie’s face three inches from his own, the younger boy frowning, lips pouting, as he studies Liam. “You’re leaving today,” Willie says slowly. “You gonna come back?”

Liam sits up in his bed, patting the sheets beside him. Willie crawls in next to him and leans on Liam’s broad shoulder. This is the first time he’s ever shown any affection towards Liam of any kind. “Of course I’m gonna come back,” Liam replies. “I still gotta teach you what the capital of Texas is.”

Willie giggles, tiny, pudgy hand reaching up to scratch his nose, then reaching for Liam’s hand, entwining their fingers. “Austin,” he whispers. “Austin is the capital of Texas.”

Liam’s heart bursts. He licks his lips. “That’s right, little man,” he says softly. “That’s right.”

Willie’s eyes lock with Liam’s and suddenly fill with tears. “I don’t want you to go,” he whimpers, reaching for Liam like a baby and bursting into tears. Liam hauls him up onto his lap, arms tugging at his neck, holding Liam tightly. “Please don’t go.”

“I have to go, Willie,” Liam soothes, heart breaking. He listens to Willie snuffle sadly into his neck for minutes and lets a few tears of his own crawl down his cheek. “But I’ll come back. I promise.”

“You can’t,” Willie snaps. “You can’t promise, Liam. People die in wars… That’s why you can’t promise.”

Liam closes his eyes as Willie’s cries get louder. The door opens abruptly and he sees Sophia standing there, brow furrowed in sorrow, hand clasped over her mouth. But she doesn’t move, she lets him have his time, and for that he’s grateful. “Let me tell you something, little man,” Liam whispers, pulling Willie away from his chest so he can look into his eyes. “My mother used to tell me this, alright?” Willie nods and twists Liam’s fingers as he gazes at Liam. Sophia whimpers. “She used to tell me that, one day… One day, people like you and me, people who believe in Jesus… We’re gonna meet again, okay?” Willie nods. “We’re gonna meet again in a place called heaven. And it’s going to be amazing. There’s not gonna be any Math homework, or any crying. Just the biggest party you’ve ever been to.”

“And you’ll be there? No matter what happens?”

Liam’s throat closes on him, tears rushing to his eyes. He licks his lips and tries to say something. Nothing happens. When he finally speaks, it’s painful and raw and squeaky. “Yes, little man. No matter what happens.”

Willie nods as he hears Mary call from down the hall, _Willie! William, c’mon, I need your help!_ He leaps off Liam’s lap and is halfway to the door, halfway to goodbye, when he turns back and runs back to Liam, hugging him for the last time. Liam doesn’t even try to hold back his sobs. When Willie draws back, his face is clear, and he plants a kiss to Liam’s cheek. “No matter what happens,” Willie whispers.

Then he is gone.

Liam breaks down, sitting on the edge of his bed in nothing but his Long Johns and a lavender-scented sheet wrapped around his middle. His palms hold his face in his hands, back breaking underneath the weight of it all, he can’t breathe, suddenly there are warm and delicate fingers pulling him towards something, he looks through his tears to see Sophia brushing them away, droplets forming in her own eyes. In a moment of decision, he wraps his arms around her and holds her, she holds him; they sit on his bed and cry for what seems like an eternity.

After a while Sophia draws back and traces his face as if she’s trying to memorize it. “No matter what happens,” she says- voice breaking, the moment is so raw and painful it _burns_ Liam’s flesh. “I want you to come home.” She laces their fingers together, then looks up quickly, eyes flashing with passion. Suddenly his lips are on hers, tender and warm, and it’s so heartbreakingly real and beautiful and it’s over way too soon but Liam looks into her eyes and she nods. “That was so you’d remember,” she explains. “So you’d remember where home was.”

Liam licks his lips and nods dumbly, his tears gone but the pain is still present. She presses a kiss to the tip of his nose one more time before standing up and putting all of her strength into walking out of the door. Once she’s at the doorframe, she turns back around and locks eyes with him. “You’re my hero, Liam James Payne. Don’t let me down.”

Then she is gone.

As she leaves the small room, Liam tries to memorize the moment: blue walls, stained chair sitting in the corner. This is home. This is home.

He will come home someday.

 

**\-----**

_April 15 th, 1861 – Cleveland, Ohio_

“Name.” A fat man sitting in a stained yellow suit is saying with _great_ expression. Harry blinks and stumbles over the words, fingers twitching into his palm. “Harry Edward Styles.”

They had gotten to Cleveland a little over an hour ago, to the Draft Station where all militia were told to meet. Almost immediately they had been split up- he has no idea where Niall, Louis or Zayn were. Harry is terrified. What happens if they are split up permanently? He can feel panic rising in his throat. He is going to puke.

“Occupation.”

“Medical apprentice.”

The man raises his eyebrows, grunting and sighing as he scrawls that down as well. Looking up at Harry, he motions down the line. “Go there, get your gear, then take a left and get changed in that building. Bring your normal clothes to the same table. Higgins’ll take it from you.”

Harry stands dumbly, watching the man’s finger, trying desperately not to vomit. He needs to find Louis. “Well, go on, then,” the fat man says, waving pudgy fingers in Harry’s face and forcing him to recoil in the direction the man wants him to go, shoving him towards a long table with mismatched clothes, rifles, bayonets, canteens. Harry watches as the men in front of them frown and turn the clothing- navy blue, dark, stained, over in their fingers- no sizes, no directions. The men signing them up yell at them to hurry up, we haven’t got all day, we’re burning daylight. Harry follows a tall, burly and lean boy (older than him? Looks smart) into the line, fingers shaking as he grasps a uniform, hoping it’s the right size.

They’re directed into a small, dark room, with cement floors. It smells like sweat and manure. They’re ordered to change into their ‘uniforms’, and as Harry begins to change he groans. The trousers are fine, but the jacket is two sizes too big. Sighing, he glances around the room- most everyone else looks like they’re doing fine, but his eyes scan back to near him, on his left, the lanky lean boy who was in front of him is already studying Harry.  “Wanna trade?” he asks, holding a shirt in front of his bare chest that looks just about Harry’s size.

Harry nods. “Thanks,” he says softly as he slips it over his head. Deciding now was as good a time as any, he slipped it over his head and pulled it down, then extending a trembling hand in the lad’s direction. “I’m Harry.”

“I’m Liam,” the older, taller boy redirects. He has brown, caramel eyes that look soft and smooth. Beneath his orbs, Harry can see pain, and heartbreak. He’s missing someone, Harry can tell. But he shields it well. His guard is up. Liam speaks again, “You infantry?”

“I’m assuming so,” Harry admits. “I have no idea. You?”

“Infantry,” Liam admits, shrugging and running a hand over the rifle like he knows it, like it’s his lover. Harry watches him with greedy eyes, not even daring to touch his own gun (currently laying on the ground beside his feet), afraid he’ll shoot someone by accident. “Where you from?”

“London,” Harry sighs. “Came over in November to visit my uncle in South Carolina and wound up here somehow.”

Liam’s eyebrows shot straight to his hairline, comical expression on his face. “South Carolina, eh? You be careful with that tongue, might get labeled as a dissenter.” Harry laughs and sits down beside Liam on the small bench in the sunshine outside the shack. “Why’d you join the Union, then? Betcha your uncle wanted you to join the Confederacy.”

“My uncle doesn’t know where I am,” Harry confessed. At Liam’s quizzical look, he continued, “I was an intern for Dr. Robert Turner Allison, a medical professor near Charleston. I guess… Well, after a while, I found out that he wasn’t _just_ a doctor. He was, you know. Helping slaves escape.” Liam seemed unfazed, nodding and quirking a bushy eyebrow. “Anyways, I defended the wrong people and got sent up here to live with some distant relative, in Iowa.” Harry shrugged. “That’s how I got here.”

There’s a shout from across the clearing and Harry looks up to see Niall bounding towards them. “Harold!” he shouts, latching onto the boy in a Horan hug when he sees him, trying to lift him off the ground but failing. Noticing Liam, he smiles and extends his hand. “Niall Horan.”

Liam shakes his hand, smiling. “Liam Payne.”

“Niall! Oh, for god’s sakes, I swear we leave him alone for _five minutes…_ ” Harry can hear Louis’ voice echoing off the small pine trees, then Zayn’s, “He’s over there with Harry, Lou, I _just_ saw him.” Eventually the two make their way over to the trio, introducing themselves and scolding Niall.

“So where are you from, then… Payne, is it?” Louis asks. “Where dost thou hail from?”

Liam smiles, but it’s a little tight, and strained. Harry thinks he looks like he’s trying to force it. “Oregon, but- just recently, Massachusetts.”

“Ah, I see. Uncle Tom’s golden boy then, huh, Payno?”

Something in Liam’s expression flickers dangerously for half a nanosecond before his expression carefully glides back to marked territory and he smiles, again- same smile, strained- at Louis. “Something like that.”

And that’s when it all starts, really.

In the two months after they all meet, they become inseparable.

It begins the night after the conscription- each soldier, they realize, was given half a tent. You are required to find another solider willing to share a tent with you. It was quickly decided between Niall and Liam that they would go together, and Louis and Harry had already set to work pitching their own tent. Zayn stood awkwardly watching them—pain in his chest as he watched the four people he had come to trust going on without him. He was about to turn away, tears in his eyes, when Louis called out, “Oi!! Golden Boy! What about Gigglemug over here?” Louis had taken to calling them all random nicknames at random times, but Liam still turned when called and looked at Zayn, motioning him over. Blushing abashedly, Zayn explained they’d shorted him half a tent, they hadn’t given him one- “I think it’s because, you know. I’m…” Embarrassment flooded his cheeks and he stared down between his and Liam’s feet, emotion pooling in his eyes. “Because I’m…”

“Different?” Liam finished for him, yet when Zayn looked up, he was smiling. There was no condemnation. “It was wrong of them to short you… but look, see? The tent’s pretty big. We can squeeze you in, no problem.” Liam was right- their tent was pretty big. Pretty big and pretty dilapidated. There was a water stain with green algae on the top, but, they made do.

So, after that, they’re inseparable.

There are no defined groups. Through the long and heavy months that are April, May and June, the five of them stick together through it all. They all line up, side by side, holding their guns and closing their eyes, each and every one of them (Louis proclaims he didn’t, but he’s a terrible liar) when they fire. Niall and Liam are the only one who have ever actually fired a gun before, the other three all but bursting into tears when they almost shoot their commanding officer. But they learn. Niall takes Louis and Liam takes Harry and Zayn and shows them how to fire, patiently. “It’s a Spencer Repeating Rifle,” Niall says proudly, pointing out the signature carving on the side of the weapon. “It’s reliable but has a right limited range, got it?” Louis nods. “Now, shoot again.” Louis does so, barely missing Liam’s head in the process. Niall sighs and pushes his hands between Louis’ shoulder blades. “You’re too tense,” he whines, massaging into the tight flesh. “Relax, then maybe you won’t kill your own comrade.”

But they learn.

In May Harry decides all five of them need a haircut, ‘before it get’s too hot, Lou, you’re complaining now because you actually have to bathe but you’ll be thanking me in August’. He orders all of them to wash in the river (which they do, but it’s not so much _wash_ as it is _have a water fight and tackle Liam_ ). When they arrive back at their little camp (two tents facing each other, firepit in the middle with a rough tripod and a dirty Dutch Oven), Harry is standing with a pink apron on and stationary scissors in one hand, a bottle of alcohol in the other. “This is for any cuts,” he promises, Niall just rolls his eyes and downs the whole bottle.

In June they get tired of their rations, and receive their first salary. Liam’s outraged when he finds out, while him, Louis, Niall and Harry all received $13, Zayn only received $7. It takes all four of them to convince him not to go kill anyone. Niall comes up with the idea to split all of their wages fairly, so they do. They each get 11 dollars, with change left over. There’s a moment of silence before Harry murmurs, “Give it to Zayn.” So they do. Zayn cries. He’s never had any money of his own before.

They take the idea of pooling their money and do the same with their rations. At the beginning, they have lots of veggies and dried fruit, but as they move across the Northern United States, the rations get less and less colorful and more and more bland. Bread is everywhere, usually moldy, and the ‘meat’ they’re given is as salty as ‘the Caspian Sea’, Louis proclaims. ( _“Lou, you’ve never even been to the Caspian Sea.” “Shut up, Styles, neither have you.”_ ) Potatoes are in abundance, which makes Niall exceedingly happy for about 3.6 days until it’s all that they’re eating. Harry finds some spices in an old abandoned house and tucks it away for ‘special occasions’. Louis complains but beams when Harry spoons just a little bit of paprika onto each of their potatoes that night. It’s the best meal they’ve had in a while.

Of course- there are moments. They spend almost four months just learning how to march- not even really handling weaponry until late June. Their officers are determined to wear them out- ‘exhaustion is the finest method of torture’ Louis complains at night when they’re all too tired to even crawl underneath the covers. On July 1st Louis finally stands up to their commanding officer after Zayn collapses from heat stroke. They engage in a full-on fist fight (Louis winning), while Harry hastily spills water into Zayn’s mouth and wonders how it is that people are already ready to die and they haven’t fought any battles yet. Eventually a sergeant comes around and tears them apart, slapping Louis to the ground and giving him slop duty for the rest of the week. Louis- exhausted, as they all were, barely made it through the harsh duty of dishes and cleaning the sergeant’s tents. After hours, when it was dark, Harry would lay awake- even though he was bone tired, watching Louis sleep curled against Zayn, shadows of ghosts haunting his cheekbones. He traces them with his fingertips, anxiety curling in his belly that he can’t seem to get rid of. He wants to remember, wants to never forget. He tries to memorize Louis sleeping- peaceful, just a little boy thrown into the war- because he doesn’t want to memorize Louis later- war-torn and broken.

So there are moments.

Sometimes they march twenty miles and then turn back around. It’s been four months since they enlisted and they’ve not seen a single Confederate troop. Men are starting to pack up and leave, some just disappearing into the night. In the evening the five of them sit with lukewarm cups of coffee in their hands (it tastes more like dirt than anything else) and sometimes one of them starts to cry. They don’t ask questions anymore, because the ever present Feeling isn’t something you can really explain or put into words, but it’s always _there._ It lurks behind trees, sneaks up behind you while you’re sleeping and wakes you with nightmares. So when one of them starts to cry they usually just cram into one tent altogether, squished and try to remember what life was like when they didn’t feel like this, always being watched, always being followed.

Usually they end up with all their pinky fingers intertwined. No one ever asks why, but it’s kind of like an unspoken promise. Like, _I promise you I will return_ and _I promise you it’s going to be okay_. They start to pinky promise everything- before bed, before they split up for the day’s work. They link their pinkies together and squeeze- hard enough to make it hurt, to remind them that they have something to come home to. And they never say anything. And, usually, they do come home- the same every night, to their little triangle of a campground, and every day it’s the same.

Until now.

+

“And when all the wars are over, a butterfly will still be beautiful.”   
― Ruskin Bond, _Scenes from a Writer’s Life_

+

_July 18 th, 1861 – Centreville, Virginia_

The day they go into battle is orange.

They are awoken in the early dawn by the sounds of hurried shouts and footsteps echoing from outside their lodgings inside the sleepy Virginia town. “The Grey Backs are approaching! Git up, y’arses!”

Harry’s eyes open to see Louis staring right back at him. They’d taken to all sleeping close together for warmth reasons, (and also because Louis had lit their only blanket on fire when cooking dinner a month and a half ago) so Harry can feel Liam tense behind him and Niall’s sharp inhaled breath.

Zayn’s the only one unaffected by the news. He sits up and runs a hand through his hair and yawns. “This is what we came for, boys,” he says softly. “Best be up and at ‘er.”

Not an hour later they’re being divided- Louis and Liam with Daniel Tyler, the rest with Colonel William T. Sherman. Harry feels fear firework in his belly, as he turns to Louis, “No, please no…” His voice trails off into oblivion as the din surrounds them- thousands of people milling around him. His eyes lock with Louis, and he knows that he’ll be with Niall and Zayn but he just guesses he never thought it would come to this, that he’d never actually have to go and _fight,_ everything is happening all at once.

Louis grabs his hands and squeezes them, hard. The pain brings Harry back to the present, and he vaguely sees Liam pull Niall and Zayn away, to let Louis and Harry have their moment. The sounds surrounding Harry are so noisy and loud, everything is happening so quickly, he can’t stop….

“It is going to be okay,” Louis is saying- forcefully, but Harry’s not stupid- he can see it in his eyes, the tears, his orbs are glassy and round and large and everything his happening all at once. There’s a smell of smoke and rain in the air, mixed with the early morning sky- all tiger orange, striped with purples and pinks, Harry thinks its sad that beauty is always associated with pain and pain is always associated with peace. He can hear sergeants shouting at their officers, the officers shouting at the militia, the horses are neighing and there’s a distant sound of a flock of birds squawking from the damp, dew-fallen earth. His eyes are wild and unfocused as he looks at Louis, still studying Harry. He’s not surprised to see tears painting Louis’ cheeks either, but in a moment of decision, Harry leans forward and embraces Louis so tightly he can _feel_ the breath leave both of their lungs. Their eyes remain closed for more than a few moments and Harry can feel Louis shaking, trembling. He suspects he’s doing the same but he doesn’t say anything.

Harry opens his eyes to see Liam looking on, sadly. With a shaking hand, Harry extends a pinky towards Liam, swallowing his fear for now. He feels flesh meet flesh and watches as Liam’s features transform into determination. Niall and Zayn latch on soon, leaving only Louis to stare dumbly at the clump of fingers intertwined and held together by a bond, he would say later, much stronger than flesh. A bond of spirit- they were brothers, now. Weren’t they.

Louis nods and gulps, furrowing his brows as he links his pinky to Niall’s. All of them _want_ to say something, but none of them do. They all swallow and wipe away their tears and follow each other to their respective locations- Louis and Liam with Daniel Tyler, Harry and Niall and Zayn with Colonel William T. Sherman.

None of them speak until they’re marching off to battle.

Or to their deaths.

But are they really all that different?

**_\----_ **

The day Harry’s life changes is red.

He will always remember it as red because that is how he will always remember any battle he ever fought in. In years to come a young relative of his will ask him, “Which battle did you hate the most?” And with a start Harry will realize he doesn’t really remember any of them. Not specifically, not individually. It would be nice to answer in the shiny, put-together answer that Tennyson and all the other poets seemed to master in their literature on war. But it’s not the truth. Nothing in war ever ends poetically. It ends and then we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red. Harry tries hard to not remember the crimson blood.

But he remembers.

He remembers—certain things, like the constant panic of _do I have enough ammo,_ yes, _reload it faster,_ fast, _Grey at 3 o’clock, Niall’s behind me_ , focus. He also remembers that first feeling- the feeling of following a Colonel who doesn’t even know his name blindly into battle, Niall beside him on one side, Zayn on the other. He will always remember the present confusion, stepping over the hill- so that they can see the field of battle.

The four months of long, grueling practice runs, drawn-out fake battle plans, mock marches and screaming from dozens of different sergeants in no way prepared Harry—or, if any of them were honest, the other boys for the sight that greeted them. Complete and utter chaos- soldiers running each and every way, smoke billowing from the ground and the sky, complete din and movement. Harry feels sick when he can vaguely spot out carriages- filled with civilians, parked on a nearby road. Niall swears beside him.

The boy in front of them- Joshua? whistles lowly and shakes his head. “I ‘eard they’d come down to watch the battle,” he said slowly. “But I didn’t think it was actually true.”

Soon enough their line halts. Harry thinks, for a brief moment, how strange it all is- the fact that, really, they’re all just little toy soldiers in the game of pawn battle makers wanting to make a lasting stain on history’s pages. But he doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because they’re ordered to line up and advance.

They have practiced this enough times over the last four months that Harry could do it in his sleep- exactly six steps forwards, turn to the right, face forwards, shoulders aligned with Niall on one side and Joshua on the other- chin lifted high, Spencer pressed solidly to the side of his torso. But as he lines up- this time for real, this time in battle, as he actually stands behind the man in front of him and looks through the small gap between him and the next male’s head to see smoke and bullets and people dying, his mind flickers back to Mary’s warm little tidy house in Hopkinton- the smell of almost-baked bread, the soft wafting of _Silent Night_ through the house, the hint of peppermint in every cushion and blanket he held. He can see her now, reaching for him, can almost feel her fingers close around his wrist and place a gentle kiss to the hollow of his neck- sleepily whispering, _“Please come home to me, Harry. Please stay safe._ ”

“Fire!”

Harry’s fingers shake as he pulls the trigger, watching in horror as the advancing Grey Backs (Louis had taken to calling the Confederates this, after seeing their plain and dismal grey uniforms) fall in heaps in front of them. He gags. The blood was awful seeing it from afar, but seeing it up close- and knowing that he and his comrades inflicted it- is worse. And he’s a medical student. He spares a glance at Niall and Zayn and knows they’re not feeling any better.

It becomes quickly apparent, throughout the long and smoky afternoon, that- although they are ordered to fire repeatedly, their bullets are only penetrating few Confederates, and they were wasting their precious ammunition. It also becomes evident that no one, not even Sherman, knew what they were doing. The flag communication system they had depended on was difficult to read in the smoky humidity of Virginia’s July afternoon, and the messengers sent from various Generals and Commanders were few and far between. Sherman’s regiment was far enough away from the action to only kill at most twenty, but from their position they could see the battle waging beneath.

It was not a pretty sight.

The blue flanked most of the Confederate corners, but was repeatedly pushed back and discouraged in their pushes against the southwest and southeast flanks of the Grey Back army. Harry had asked if anyone knew where Tyler’s regiment was, but with no luck. Looking at the grisly scene in front of him, however… He knew Louis and Liam were down there somewhere. Harry was not a fighter, but standing stock still and just _watching_ his fellow comrades fall beneath him was sickening to say the least.

Throughout the long and humid ordeal, Sherman frantically paced his horse in front of his troops, mumbling hurriedly to himself and starting at the nearest sound of a galloping horse, thinking it may be a messenger. Eventually he swore loudly and conversed in a clipped tone with three of the officers. After a brief dialogue, he nodded and shouted, “Forwards, men! Keep together and look sharp.”

And so it continued.

Together they journeyed into the battlefield. It happened slowly- there was no moment of _now we are in battle,_ but rather a steady progression of faster, faster, fastest loading of bullets and firing and breathing and kneeling and shouting and following and running. Soon Harry’s mind was on nothing else than reloading and firing, reloading and firing. He is so focused on survival that the screams, the blood, the smoke all fade away. They still scald him, but they fade.

Until he hears Niall scream.

He had just finished shooting blindly when Niall screamed loudly and in anguish beside him, collapsing to the ground holding his lower torso. Zayn turns at the same time as Harry, as another bullet whizzes past them. The moment seems to slow- as Private Harry switches gears into Medic Harry, shouting at Zayn, “We need to get him somewhere else!” and Zayn replies, “Over here! Behind this broken wagon!”

Harry and Zayn awkwardly half-carry, half-drag Niall over to the wagon and set him down on the ground. Harry’s fingers are shaking as he assesses the wound, cursing loudly as he wracks his brain for something to stop the bleeding. “Zayn, call a medic!” he hisses, and Zayn looks confused (Harry almost expects Louis’ voice to chide, _Styles- you **are** a medic, get to work_ , but its Zayn, not Louis, so he does as he’s told). Niall’s passed out by now, and an officer has run up to check if he’s still alive. “You got him, Styles?” the officer asks.

It is then that Harry realizes the gravity of the situation, the fact that _oh my actual Lord we are in a real alive battle and it is up to me to save my friends life._ He nods dumbly at the officer just as Zayn returns- breathless and with blood on his cheek. “The medics are all occupied,” he gasps. “But I got this,” he holds up what looks like a haphazard First Aid kit. Harry grabs it and opens it with trembling fingers.

He has done this procedure a dozen times before in medical school, but it’s been so long since he’s done it in person he hesitates for half a nanosecond. Zayn smirks and nudges him. “Hurry up, then, you don’t want Horan dying on your watch now, do you?” Harry has no idea how Zayn can manage to be _smirking_ in a time like this, but later he wonders if that was Zayn’s secret, just letting everything slide off his back like water.

Harry manages to stop the bleeding and use a local anesthetic around the wound as the bullets whiz past him. He doesn’t know what to do, really. He doesn’t know what the procedure is- does he wait until Niall wakes up? Do they continue fighting? He knows that there are (supposedly) ambulances that come and pick up the wounded- but looking around him at the bleak outlook, it doesn’t seem likely anyone is coming very soon.

Zayn has been keeping watch since Harry started, firing occasionally at the random Grey Back approaching and keeping shrapnel at bay. “Some of our men are retreating,” he says monotonously. Harry’s stomach twists. Does that mean they’ve lost? “I think we should carry him home.”

It’s an incredibly dangerous suggestion, but one that Harry knows they have to take. They could be shot at any moment in the back—or, even worse, Niall could be injured further in the treacherous climb up the hill and back towards the Union’s encampment. However- staying here would be just as detrimental, at some point they were both going to run out of ammo, and, judging by the bleak onlook of the Union’s prerogatives, the retreating parties vastly outnumbered those who were staying to fight.

Zayn’s eyes flicker over Harry’s face before he nods. “You carry him,” Zayn murmurs. “I’ll cover you from the back.”

Fingers shaking, Harry lifts up Niall.

The next few minutes are a blur. He can vaguely remember picking up Niall, scooping him into his arms and the turning to look back at Zayn. He remembers running for his life in the opposite direction, remembers the screams of dying men beside him, remembers the blood staining his boots and the bottom of his trousers. He remembers Zayn screaming, he remembers looking back in terror, he remembers Zayn scolding him and telling him to keep running. So he remembers running. Because that’s all Harry Styles ever does- run.

But this time it was different, this time he was doing it to protect a friend.

The next thing he knows a hand is on his shoulder, pulling him back. “Harry,” a breathless voice gasps. “You can stop now, we’re out of shot.”

It isn’t until he turns to face Zayn that the breathlessness hits him. He’s gasping for air, halfway bent over before Zayn swears and takes Niall from him, forcing Harry’s head between his knees. “Breathe, Styles, c’mon.” His head is spinning as he studies the ground beneath him, grimacing when he sees his boots are stained- _caked_ with blood. Eventually he raises his head to glance at Zayn, who is doing something vaguely resembling checking Niall’s pulse (although he’s listening to his upper arm, but oh well). Harry’s fingers (dirty with blood and grime, but he doesn’t think about it- or he tries not to) press into Niall’s neck and he sighs in relief. “He’ll be okay,” he whispers, locking eyes with Zayn.

Zayn smirks and then extends a pinky towards Harry, raising an eyebrow and chuckling. Harry sighs shakily and latches onto the finger, noticing how violently his hands are trembling as he does so. Zayn notices, too- Harry can tell by the alarmed expression on his face, but _thank God_ he doesn’t say anything.

They continue on their way—several soldiers and sergeants passing them. They ask each one where they’re supposed to be headed, where they should be going- but no one answers. They just keep walking until they reach the remains of the Union camp.

**_\-----_ **

“Liam! Liam, over this way!” Louis shouts as he cuts his way through the underbrush. “I can smell the smoke, the camps over this way.”

The noisy crackling behind him announces Liam’s return. “You don’t have to shout, Lou.”

“Yes I do, thank you very much Liam,” Louis retorts as he uses his bayonet (rather poorly) to peer through the bristly branches. “If I weren’t shouting, you’d still be back there trying to kill the Grey Backs all on your lonesome.”

He can practically _feel_ the pout playing it’s way onto Liam’s lips. “I still think retreating was wrong, Lou.”

The intensity and passion in Liam’s voice forces Louis to pause in his efforts and speech. Truth be told, Louis agrees with Liam- backing out on a fight like that, without any orders, _was_ wrong. But they both know why they did it, why everyone did it- because that’s the point, everyone did it- not just Louis and Liam. He could say a lot of things, things like, _we didn’t have a choice,_ or, _we would’ve died if we’d stayed out there,_ but he doesn’t because war is really all about that- dying without consent. So when Louis replies, his tone is much softer, “I can’t have you dead by the first battle, mate. Zayn would kill me.”

Liam licks his lips and laughs (because that’s the appropriate response) but the sadness and tension is still in the air. And Louis knows. Hell, they both know- they both saw people falling beside them, moaning in pain. It hurt like heck to turn and run away from the scene past hundreds of men crying out and latching onto their feet, begging for help. It’s a mirace he and Liam even made it out.

The thought provokes a choked gasp from Louis, crumpling to his knees as he trips on some underbrush. “Lou?” Liam murmurs, hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“D-do you,” Louis gasps. “Do you think they made it out?”

He blinks up at Liam, spotty sunlight illuminating his dirty face as the sun pierces through the dappled leaves of trees ahead. His mind flashes back to home- wherever home is, back at Mary’s, playing hide-and-seek with Niall and Harry outside, hiding with his hand pressed over Harry’s obnoxiously loud mouth, sunlight dappling his dimples and making him look young with no worries. Liam sighs in the present and extends a hand. “Let’s go find out.” And that’s what Louis likes about Liam. He’s sensible and honest- brutally and painfully so, but you can always depend on him.

They make it through the brush and see the camp in the distance. Smoke is billowing up from the ground as if the camp itself is evaporating into thin air. On the east side, all they can see is red- wounded and already dead, lying bloating in the hot sun. Flies swarm around the blood and the cries of anguish seize Louis in a vice grip and shake him, making his heart clench. It’s a grisly sight for anyone- but…

“Liam!” a voice calls out from their right, a few hundred yards away. Louis and Liam squint in that direction at the same time, spotting Zayn running towards them- blood on his face and uniform but, besides that, unscathed. Liam gives an embarrassing little whimper and rushes towards him, arms outstretched. The embrace is raw and clumsy and if it were anyone else and on any other occasion Louis would probably vomit but they just survived _war_ and everything is fair in love and war, right?

He joins the messy hug and feels tears stain his uniform from Zayn. Eventually they regain some sanity and Louis sniffs, “What about the others?”

“Niall got shot in the ribs,” Zayn replies, wiping his face and exhaling shakily. “Harry was the real hero though; got him all fixed up and carried him back.”

“He’s okay?”

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Zayn nods, running his hands over Liam’s arms and looking for any injuries, then doing the same for Louis. “Harry’s being briefed in our tent about Niall with one of the doctors, think they’re pretty impressed.”

They make their way towards their little tent area and Liam asks, “You think they’ll make ‘im a medic?”

“Think?” Zayn laughs. “Harry can’t last another day out there,” he jerks a thumb towards the battlefield. “Besides, he saved Niall’s life. I think it’ll happen.”

A rustle announces Harry’s nose peeking out of the tent, followed by his head, “Zayn, get me the- _Louis!_ ”

Harry latches himself onto Louis with as much enthusiasm as a family pet squealing and barking when their owner gets home, embracing Louis and then hauling Liam into the messy hug all while giggling hysterically and crying at the same time. “You’re okay,” he whimpered again and again and again, hiccupping and sobbing and heaving with the sheer possibility of it all. He started to shudder with each breath he took, causing Louis to pat his back and shush him, “S’okay, Styles, you don’t have to die on us after that battle now, you hear?”

He sits with Harry as he calms down, as the sun sets, and as the stars align in the sky Louis lets his eyes close and just listen to the soft warbling of the birds tucking their young into bed, the fire crackling sending small luminous fireworks off to the heavens- trying to rival the stars. The world feels at peace when his eyes are closed, and as he feels Harry’s pinky finger wrap around his own he realizes that, one day, when this is all over and done with and whether he gets to live in a little white farmhouse with eighteen children or not, he will remember this. And that- even though they’ve just come back from one of the bloodiest battles in history to date, even though their lives have been turned upside down, even though he is a soldier now and he _killed people_ today—he will remember this. He will remember this moment. He will remember how it felt to sit underneath the stars, finger intertwined, stars aligned- candles bright, ready for the dawn. He will remember that feeling, the feeling of complete and honest freedom.

And maybe that’s what it was all about.

Later that week- after all the tears are dried and the blood wiped clean, after they stop jolting awake from nightmares, after they pick up and move camp, pick up and move again, they sit underneath the stars, around a crackling firepit. It’s a Friday, Harry thinks- he’s never really sure what day it is anymore, and he tries to remember what his life was like… before. He tries to picture Hampton- sitting in its prime, holding all of its glory, shining in the sun. He tries to capture the moment, hold it in his palm, tries to remember what normal feels like. Because he knows this isn’t normal- but what scares him is that it’s beginning to feel like it… Beginning to feel like _home._ With no four walls, no constant, steady factor besides the four people around him.

The fire sends glistening orange glitters up to the heavens, shimmering in the dusk. They are sitting in silence- all four of them; Zayn curled up behind Harry to keep him warm, Niall and Liam and Louis in a small clump, Louis occasionally asked, “Y’alright, Ni?” even though he knows Niall’s fine. It’s silent besides the sporadic spit and hiss from the fire before Niall moves slightly, rising to his feet (wincing slightly, but Niall doesn’t like attention) and grabs something from within the tent.

“Found this today,” he grunts. “In one of the houses in Centreville?”

It’s a guitar- beaten and dirty, some of the strings missing. But Niall holds it like its his lover and that’s when Harry realizes the startling, harsh truth: none of them really know the others. They don’t _really_ know where they were born, where they came from, who they are. As Niall sits down and starts to pluck the melancholy strings, Harry closes his eyes and lets the pastel light of the fire guide him home- back to cottony fields of white, Christmases spent long ago. Did Niall ever play guitar? What was Liam’s mother’s name? Does Zayn know who his father is? Does Louis have a family? Harry feels like he’s known them all a lifetime, but then again- wartime does that to you. You have to make alliances or else you’re not going to survive.

Harry wants to ask so many things, he realizes, like _what did your house look like_ and _was it yellow or blue_ but he’s currently too exhausted to even think about anything else so he just lets Niall play. The lilting melody has his mind muddled and confused, but as he studies Niall across the fire- sparks crackling and shooting up towards the sky, he smiles widely and feels happier than he has in months. Zayn’s foot nudges against his and he murmurs, “You okay?”

Niall keeps playing, as Harry’s eyes circle around the fire at each of his four best friends. Liam with his studious glare, licking his lips, little eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he stares up into the night sky, murmuring nonsense about _the little dipper isn’t actually that little, is it Lou,_ and then Louis- smart, soft, sleepy Louis- his favourite Louis, all curled up against Liam- neck craned to the sky, biting his nails, trying to capture the sky in his palm and keep it for the rest of eternity; show it to his grandkids _this was the sky on the night that I learned what freedom meant._ Niall’s eyes lock with his across the fire and he smirks, fingers running over his guitar fretboard like they were meant to be there, like that’s where they belong, and Harry can’t help but think that that is where the calloused pads belong, not cleaning a rifle or digging into bloody flesh to snatch extra cartridges from a pouch. Zayn nudges him again and Harry nods. “I’m fine,” he whispers. He knows Zayn doesn’t believe him, but _God bless America and anyone like Zayn in this world,_ he doesn’t say anything, just looks down at the ground, sleepily snuffles and snuggles closer to Harry for extra warmth.

Niall keeps playing and Harry can vaguely hear Louis singing along- _Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me, starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee._ The stars in the heavens above are too bright, almost… Harry feels tears prick the corners of his eyes as Niall keeps playing, softly… It’s a song of hope, but it’s also a song of death. Zayn’s grip tightens around him as it continues- _Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day, lull'd by the moonlight have all pass'd away! Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song, list while I woo thee with soft melody._ Liam’s fingers brush against Harry’s as they all continue to sing along; knowing the words by heart. _Gone are the cares of life's busy throng, beautiful dreamer, awake unto me._

Somehow their pinky fingers wind up taut around each others, tears mixing with hushed promises that, one day, they’d make it out of here and they’d each have ten kids and they’d each marry a beautiful wife (“Not in that order, I hope,” Louis jokes). Harry realizes that that’s kind of the point, isn’t it. That he doesn’t need to know where they came from or what they’ll do next: only where they are going. Where they are headed. So he locks fingers with all of them again and they fall asleep like that, underneath the stars, coyotes howling at the ghosts of their dreams that hover above their heads as they slumber, glistening sparks of passion dissipating into the night.


	3. part three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later, Harry will look back on that moment and he will remember Perrie Edwards as the strongest person he has ever known. She was told all her life she couldn’t do it- by Tripler, Grimshaw, her own family. She was told continuously that, as a woman, she was not allowed to be brave and strong and courageous. She was not allowed to be honest, to follow her dreams, to fly. Yet she did all of those things. She scared people by her honesty- she did exactly as she said, and she never faltered in finding happiness. Perrie Edwards. Legend, brave warrior, lioness. Looking at her in the midst of a dingy army hospital, Harry can see her accomplishing so much. Even though she was told not to.

+

“Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone arbitrarily labeled “enemy?”

― Sylvia Plath

+

Life continues. In the weeks that follow they come to call that first battle the Battle of Bull Run, but they don’t really talk about it, mostly because they know eventually all the battles will blur together into one long myriad of red and scarlet and gunpowder. Some of the men around them, in their camps and tents, make toasts to the bloody Greybacks and how the Confederate army is a bunch of scallywags and so on, so forth. It’s easy to paint their faces all one colour- red, a target to shoot for. But Harry- especially. Finds it hard.

Maybe that’s why Harry does it.

And that leads us to the present moment, following Harry closely- threading between people milling about in the Union camp. He’s had it on his mind for a while now, ever since the first battle, ever since the Incident. Niall’s doing much better now- and, well. If Harry’s honest, he’s not doing it for Niall. He’s doing this for Harry, because Harry cannot go out again and pretend to be trigger-happy whilst killing his own relatives.

He comes to the tent he had been told to report to- a dismal mustard color, splotched with patches of red and dark orange that Harry can only assume is blood. His first instinct is to knock- but, it’s a tent, and therefore there is no hard surface to rap against. He sighs and opens up the mustard flap.

It is dark and musky inside, with three or four long dark tables set in the middle of tent, directly on the grass. Each have a tall, metal tray next to it, holding syringes and scalpels of all shapes and sizes. Flies and gnats buzz around the padded surfaces of the tables, and judging from the blood stains infiltrated in the fabric, this is the amputation area.

Near the back of the tent is an opening to another, much longer tent. Harry walks through the portal and notices exits on either side- the ambulances are parked there, only eleven or twelve. As he enters the larger space he realizes this is the field hospital- filled with four or five bustling nurses and at least 30 or 40 men.

He stops one of the nurses and asks, “Are you the only ones working here?”

The young nurse smiles. “Correct, sir.” He surveys Harry up and down and raises an eyebrow. “You’ve come to apply?”

The rest of the nurses laugh boisterously and Harry blushes. “No, I’m here to see your superior. Tripler?”

“Nicholas! Stop yapping and get working!” A booming voice calls out from behind Harry. Turning, he sees an older gentleman with hardened features and greying hair. Sighing, the man says, “What can I do for you, young man? This is a field hospital, not a residence.”

“I-I’m here to, well.” Harry runs a nervous hand through his hair. “I’m a medical student- or, well. Was. I studied at King’s College in London and was an apprentice in--” He catches himself just in time. Liam’s first words to him- _“South Carolina, eh? You be careful with that tongue, might get labeled as a dissenter.”_ flashback to meet him and he gulps. “I was an apprentice with Dr. Allison. For a few months.”

Something in the man’s face changed, flickering softly and then gone. “Dr. Allison, eh?” he turns and narrows his eyes at Harry, giving him an appraisal. “I used to work with him… Before…” He waved a hand and cleared his throat. Eventually he sighs and says, “I do not like the idea that you came here to be infantry yet you run back to medicine the first chance you get.” Gesturing Harry to follow him, he leads them down the field hospital’s aisles, weaving between patients consistently. “If you knew you were qualified, why didn’t you say so?”

“I did, the registrar didn’t seem to mind.”

The man’s face convulses into an evil menace and then relaxes. He sighs. “Very well then,” he nods, stopping beside a patient’s bedside table. “Severe case of gangrene, left side, just below the second rib. Show me what you can do.”

It was clear and straightforward, with no frilly _you can do it’s!_ coming from side spectators. Nicholas- the nurse from earlier and a few other nurses giggled from a few feet away, just as the patient moaned and turned slightly. With nervous fingers, Harry reached for the set of bandages lying beside the patient's pillow, but dropped it promptly from nervousness.

The elderly gentleman sighed. “Come along now, we haven’t got all day.”

Gemma’s voice came flooding back, _You have what it takes, Harry, you just need to trust yourself more._

Mary’s voice comes creeping in, _Good work, Doctor Styles._

_I can do this._

He exhales sharply and shakes his head, unbuttoning the previous bandage and not even wincing when the typical sight and smell of gangrene escaped. Working quickly, he disposes of the previous bandage, cleans the wound substantially, checking the dressings and bandaging the patient once more. Standing quickly, he nods sharply to the gentleman standing beside him and exhales again.

Narrowing his eyes, the elderly man frowns. “Bandage to the left, not the right,” he says sternly, raising his chin and swallowing, studying Harry hard. Finally, he shows a hint of smile and extends a hand to Harry. “Surgeon Charles Tripler, your new superior.”

Harry can’t resist breaking into a smile and shaking Tripler’s hand enthusiastically. “Harry Styles.”

Tripler nods and calls for Nicholas to take the dirty bandage. “Truth be told, we need all the help we can get.” He confides as he leads the way out of the field hospital and out where the ambulances are parked. “I’ll expect you to help in here, with dressings and such until you’re capable. Have you performed surgery?”

“Many times in college underneath supervision, a couple times when I was apprenticing.”

“Good, then you’ll help with that, too.” Tripler pats one of the ambulance horse’s head and then gestured towards the hospital. “Our main goal is to treat them successfully and then determine if they need to be sent to Washington or Alexandrina, or just return to their tents. If I have any way with it, each regiment should recruit one surgeon and one assistant surgeon to serve before they could be deployed for duty, but,” Tripler sighs. He did that a lot. “I’m still working on that one.”

Tripler turns to Harry, eyes narrowed. “Are you the feller that saved his friend’s life? The Canadian?”

Harry smiled. “Niall? Yeah, he’s from Nova Scotia. And—well, I suppose so. I guess I did.”

Tripler nodded. “Glad to hear it.” Walking away a few steps and then turning back, he winked and said, “Glad to have you here.”

\-----

_August, 1861 – Springfield, Massachusetts_

“Willie! William Wallace, it’s going to rain, you need to get inside!” Sophia yells as she plucks laundry off of the line, cursing quietly into the mist that she did all this work for nothing. “Willie, I mean now!!”

“I know, you old coot!” Willie shouts as he runs past Sophia and into the house. “I ain’t deaf!”

“I’m not, Willie! I’m not deaf!” Sophia shouts back, successfully wrangling the last skirt into her basket and hauling it inside, sighing with relief when the door shuts behind her. “It’s really coming down out there,” she comments softly, watching through the window as muddy puddles form craters in the earth outside.

“You think Mama’s okay? And Papa? And Liam?”

With a pang in her heart Sophia turns to see Willie, looking small and fragile all tucked up in his chair at the kitchen table, knees folded under crossed arms. Mr. Lincoln hadn’t been back from the capital since he was elected, and Mary had gone to support him a few days earlier. The mention of Liam only made the situation worse… The thought of him, alone, out there in the rain, parading around in the mud trying to save a country by himself.

Sophia knew that wasn’t the case, but… The newspapers, the lists that already started to appear at the grocery and the butcher shop with the names of men missing, killed and badly wounded. She had never meant to. But she couldn’t help finding Parker, Patterson, Payne, Leeroy, Lou, Liam and sighing with relief when he was fine. She was scared. She was frightened.

They all were.

The worst part was no one wanted to talk about it but everyone did. No one mentioned the people who were gone, but they did manage to slide them into idle conversations with ‘back then,’ and ‘when he was younger’. It seemed that no one wanted to admit they were gone, that maybe they wouldn’t come back. Virginia’s Daily Dispatch wrote it best- “Words are now of no avail: blood is more potent than rhetoric, more profound than logic.”

“Baby…” she croons as she glides over to where Willie is sitting and scoops him up into her lap. The poor boy doesn’t show emotion enough, and when he does it’s enough to break her heart. “I’m sure they’re fine, all snuggled up in their warm tent with a fire crackling to keep them warm.”

“You sure?” _No_.

“I’m sure.”

“You positive?” _Never_.

“I’m positive.”

It’s quiet, then, as Willie mulls Sophia’s words over in his mind. The rain patters on the roof and twinkles lightly as it slides down the windows, forming rivers of droplets that spell words like _I miss you_ and _come back_. Sophia can hear Willie sniff and can feel tears stain the front of her blouse, but she doesn’t say anything. Ghosts of Liam still haunt this kitchen, Sophia thinks. She can practically still see him- sitting across from her, holding a mug of coffee, smiling softly. Telling her his tale of woe. The distance is so tangible now, with Mary and Mr. Lincoln both in Washington for a few months. It’s only Sophia and the boys, and while she’s happy… She’s never felt so alone.

Eventually Willie says, “Can we write them a letter?”

Sophia turns to him and frowns. “We sent a telegraph to your mum this morning, Willie.”

“No,” Willie exclaims, shaking his head and getting up for a piece of paper. Once he has one and has given Sophia the ink, he says slowly. “To Liam.”

Sophia blinks repeatedly, smiling sadly and then sighing. “I don’t know his address, sweetheart.”

“Can we try?” Tad pleads. “Can we just write it and try to send it to his regiment?”

She’s sure they don’t allow that, she’s sure they need at least a state to send it to, but Sophia thinks that maybe this’ll prove something to her, or to the boys, or to Liam. So she consents and dips a pen in the ink, correcting Willie’s grammar as they stumble through a letter to the only man she’s ever loved.

\-----

_September, 1861 – Kentucky_

“Mailman! Come and get it!” Niall’s voice rings outside from their tent, bundled up in damp blankets that don’t shake the never-ending cold they find from the chilly rain. Liam’s eyes sleepily blink open to see Zayn curled up next to him, close as can be, searching for extra warmth. Harry’s on the other side, can tell by the soft snuffles and snores whispering into his ear, and despite the dampness of the weather, he smiles.

The flap to the tent opens and Niall’s head peeks in, handing an envelope to Liam. “A letter for you, mate,” he smiles and Liam grabs it with greedy hands, licking his lips and reading the return address- giggling like a child when he sees it’s from Springfield. “Louis and I are on dish duty, we’ll bring back some scraps.”

“Don’t talk to strangers!” Liam whispers as Niall bounds away laughing. With trembling fingers he opens the envelope, breathing in the scent of that little tiny house on 7th Street- beside himself, he lets out an embarrassing little whimper as he remembers her, with beautiful eyes and long flowing hair, him, with curiosity and excitement and wonder. It’s strange how such simple things- a smell, a sound, a memory- can take you back.

He wants to savor the letter- it’s the first he’s gotten, wants to press it to his chest and never let it go, but the greed and the need for emotional connection is so great he rips it open and starts to read.

_Hullo Liam,_

_How are you? How is the weather? Today it is very rainy here in Springfield, Sophia has tried to do laundry on six separate occasions and every one of them has failed. She has now resorted to hanging the clothes up on the furniture in the drawing room, which is terrible fun because Tad and I play hide-and-seek in the underclothes. Mam and Pops are in the capital now, so it’s just us three in the house. Sometimes Sophia lets us stay up late and sometimes she makes us hot cocoa. I miss you. Tad says I should tell you that I’ve ‘outgrown my cowboy phase’. I met a real live Injun. Sophia says I shouldn’t call him that, but he had real feathers and everything. It was rottenly delicious. I’ve been practicing my geography, just for you. Austin is the capital of Texas. Sincerely, Willie._

_Dear Liam,_

_Willie’s run off to play and Soph says I should write you to tell you how I’ve been doing at my arithmetic. It’s not going as well as I had hoped yet I find myself getting better as the days go on. I especially find the division hard, particularly when involving large numbers. We really miss you here- mostly because Willie’s always getting himself into trouble, and Sophia does her best but she can’t cook cornbread to save her life and always burns it. Please stay safe. Respectfully, Tad._

_Dearest Liam,_

_The boys’ don’t let their emotions be expressed very thoroughly on paper, but they truly do really miss you. They pray for you every night and find a way to involve you in every mealtime conversation we have. I’ve been doing my best teaching Willie geography and Tad arithmetic but I’m afraid I’ll never be as good as you were are. I miss you more than words can say… Please stay safe and out of trouble. Love, Sophia._

Liam’s eyes flicker up from the paper, full of tears, to see Zayn studying him with a slight wistful look on his face. Zayn looks down at the ground, bashedly. Liam lies down beside him, tucks his face into his neck, and cries while Zayn pats his back and sings lullabies into his ear, lullabies about losing whom you love and not being quite sure how to gain them back.

\-----

Liam and Zayn appear late to the makeshift mess hall the army has set up whilst they’re in a more stable environment, arms thrown around each other, breaths heavy. They are given their ration of grey potatoes and grisly meat, plopped onto damp plates and herded into the stained and smelly tent everyone calls the mess hall- not really because it’s where they eat, but more just because it is a mess. This whole thing is a mess, really. The whole war. The whole life.

Harry gives Liam a compassionate look as they sit back down across from them. Harry’s hands are trembling on the table. Liam realizes with a start they never used to do that, but they do now. They poke at their food for a while, eating what doesn’t make them vomit, trying not to complain, trying not to cry. Harry mumbles on about his day, Liam tries to listen but he finds it takes too much strength. He finds himself selfish, if he’s honest. He’s the only one who got mail. He’s the only one lucky enough to have a family… Or, one that he’s willing to talk about.

And that’s the thing that catches him off guard.

Without processing what he’s saying, he asks, “Niall--”, and all four heads turn to look at him. They’ve been skirting around him all evening and they’ve hung on every breath he took. Niall swallows a spoonful of moldy potatoes, blinks, twiddles his thumbs and replies, “Yes?”

And that’s what he loves about this little band of scallywag warriors. Always willing to answer questions, always loving.

“What… Where is your family?”

The question catches Niall off guard, Liam can tell by the slight cough that arises from the Canadian’s throat and the small raised eyebrows. And it’s a fair accusation… Mostly because they just don’t talk about their lives before the war. None of them do- no one does, just in passing phrases about their families and loved ones left behind. But not… Not really. Never actually sat down and spoken about it.

“Me Dad’s all over Canada, really, trading a lot of wheat and canola,” Niall shrugs. “My Mum died when I was little, typhoid, you know. Madame Watson took care of me and me brother Greg, growing up.”

“Madame Watson?”

“She was Metis,” he explains. “Half Canadian and half Blackfoot. Sweet little lady, really loved her,” Niall’s voice cracks and he tries to pass it off as food being caught in his pipe but Liam knows him better than that. “But… Eventually. When Greg moved away- he ran off with a girl, out west to the territ’ries… She had to send me off to work. She hadn’t got anymore money.”

“So you came to work for Mary?” Harry interrupted.

Niall and Louis’ eyes connect in a flash. “Something like that,” Niall mumbles.

Awkward silence envelops the little table until Louis sighs, bites a fingernail and speaks up, “I found Niall wandering around northern Virginia when I was on one of my trips, yanno. With Harriet.” He swigs some stale alcohol. “Took him in, landed him with Mary.”

“So you did know Mary,” Harry’s eyes narrowed. “From before.”

“Sorta,” Louis confessed, then sighed. “My mum did. Knew her when we first moved to America, met her at a charity bake sale. Auntie Mary was always a trustable person in her family, but I never met her face to face until last year, with you.”

The conversation lulls for a few more moments before Zayn clears his throat, startling Liam on the other side of him. Zayn locks eyes with him for a moment, then looks down at the ground. “Didn’t know my dad, knew he was white,” he says bluntly, and that’s what Liam loves about Zayn. Truth teller. “My mum… She was a mammy.” Across the table he can see Harry’s eyes drop down to his plate guiltily, like he felt sick. “She took care of Massa’s children for him, for their Ma, because… Well, I don’t really know why she couldn’t look after her own children herself,” he admitted honestly. “But that’s what Mama did. So I grew up without her, really. She was gone all day and came home late at night. I worked in the cotton fields all my life, never a day I didn’t. Sometimes I helped Massa with the horses for an hour or so…” Zayn’s voice trailed off. “And then, one day.” His voice breaks, eyes glazed over as he stares at the ground blankly. “One day Massa just decides to sell me. Just like that. Within an hour, no warning, no goodbye’s.” One lonely, solitary tear glides down his cheek. “I never got to say goodbye to Mama. Don’t know if she even knew what happened to me.”

Liam’s heart breaks a little more with each word Zayn utters, feeling ashamed to be whining about Sophia and the boys when Zayn’s practically never had a family to call his own. Harry sniffs from across the table and sighs.

“My mum grew up in South Carolina, met my father, fell in love, moved to England. Had me and my sister, Gemma… But.” His eyes trail down the table, staring at one long crack in the chipped wood. Two of his fingers are twitching. “My Dad left us when I was eight, and then… Well. I went to medical college and my mum and sister both died.” The table sits in stone silence, watching as Harry’s fingers tremble. It’s Louis who finally reaches across and squeezes them softly. The wind whistles outside, the leaves change colors as they sit, ghosts of Septembers past dance around the flickering candle light.

“Isn’t it a miracle,” Louis says quietly. “How we’ve all been bent, but not broken.”

No one replies.

+

“But now, for the first time, I see you are a man like me. I thought of your hand-grenades, of your bayonet, of your rifle; now I see your wife and your face and our fellowship. Forgive me, comrade. We always see it too late. Why do they never tell us that you are poor devils like us, that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony-- Forgive me, comrade; how could you be my enemy?”

― Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front

+

_October – 1861_

The bustling streets of Washington are a strict contrast to the lazy flow of Springfield’s avenues- people milling about in a flurried frenzy of excitement, all trying to get somewhere, all trying to be first. The carriage moves briskly about on the cobblestone streets, with Willie hanging out one window and Tad the other, gasping and pointing and shouting at every candy shop and soldier they saw. Sophia sits, firmly planted in her seat, picking at the pink taffeta affair Mrs. Lincoln had had sent down to Springfield for her, along with suits for the boys and instructions to meet them in Washington in two weeks time. Sophia had consented, reluctantly leaving her little quaint abode in Springfield and hauling two overly excitable boys across the war-torn countryside to Washington, where they were going to meet up with their parents.

The carriage pulls through the iron gates to the White House, past the statue of Jefferson that adorns the front lawn and pulls to a stop in front of the ivory steps leading up to the magnificent mansion. Willie leaps out of the carriage joyously, halting only when Sophia calls for him to stop. Tad extends his arm to Sophia like a true gentleman, and after she grabs hold of Willie’s collar, they ascend the steps.

Mrs. Lincoln is conversing with a chambermaid when they enter the parlour, but Willie bursts out of Sophia’s grip and flies towards his mum with the grace of a runaway train. Tad follows diligently, kissing his Mother on both cheeks and hushing Willie while Sophia smiles apologetically at the maid. “Ms. Smith!” Mary cries from her knelt position on the floor. “I knew you would look stunning in that dress!”

Grimacing slightly, Sophia replies, “Thank you, ma’am, I really do… Appreciate it.”

“Well, well, well,” a booming voice echoes from behind her. “Who do we have here?”

“Pa!” Willie yells and bursts past Sophia into the arms of Mr. President himself, Abraham Lincoln. Tad smiles and embraces his father tightly as they laugh and talk all at the same time about the train ride and their cat and how everything is going to be okay now that they’re all together again. No one mentions the dark, formidable cloud hanging over them: we’re at war, America’s at war. No one mentions the Feeling: of how darkness is lurking around the corner, how nothing will ever be the same.

\----

Life trickles by, spent by hours knitting stocking after stocking for the Red Cross and quilt after quilt for the sergeants. Sophia settles into a common routine- feeling no longer needed, no longer required, as Willie and Tad spend days locked up in their father’s office, playing with the army’s sample models and sending silly telegrams to their friends back home. Mr. Lincoln is barely seen, always flitting about the country, meeting delegates, organizing fundraisers. Mary often accompanies him, and often drags Sophia about the city of Washington to charity events and galas. It’s not that Sophia minds.

It’s just that she feels useless.

It’s a month and a half after they arrived at the White House when Sophia gets a letter from Liam. She’s sitting in the parlor, listening to another army official drone on and on about the terrible dangers of bacteria festering in the mud found outside many army camps when Kelly, the chambermaid, arrives with a silver platter. “A letter for you, ma’am,” she says quietly. “From Private L. Payne.”

The squeal slash sob Sophia exerts is startling to everyone, particularly Mrs. Lincoln, who had been enjoying a nice snooze-on-the-couch during the gentleman’s presentation. Leaping up from her chair, Sophia thanks Kelly, grabs the letter, and flies out the door- into the garden, where she can read in peace.

_Dear Willie and Tad,_

_I must admit I’ve read your letters so many times I cannot count them, I’ve practically memorized them all backwards and frontwards. The boys have, as well… Mostly because none of them have gotten any mail themselves and find it hard not to be jealous at the fact I have._

_They’re all top of the line fellows, really. The five of us have formed quite the little menagerie in our time spent together. Harry, Louis, Zayn, Niall and myself. The Fantastic Five. We find ourselves feeling more like brothers as each day passes, and I feel as though they know you already, even having not ever met you._

_How are you getting on with your school? I heard you’ve been to Washington, is someone else teaching you or still Sophia? Speaking of which- Tad, tell Sophia that Harry has a hint for her cornbread: add a little bit of butter and a tiny amount of water to the top when you bake it. He says he swears by it and it never fails him. (Of course, with our rations… Who can remember the last time we had cornbread, but c’est la vie. (That’s Canadien for ‘this is life’. Niall’s Canadian)). Behave yourselves, boys. Sincerely, Liam._

There’s a stain on the bottom of the paper that looks a lot like blood, and the stationary is wrinkled and smells of smoke, but Sophia can’t help but cry when she starts to read her own.

_Dearest Sophia,_

_Firstly, I am sure you are and/or were doing a marvelous job teaching the boys. They’re rowdy kids that don’t benefit from book knowledge nearly as much as you, myself or Mrs. L would like them too. You’re a smart girl. I’m sure you figured it out._

_I miss you, too. Some night it feels like a hole has permanently taken up residence in my heart, where feelings like love used to be. Other days it’s not so bad. The boys really are godsends, you needn’t worry about us getting along because we already do. They tease me about you, but they already love you like a sister from the bits of information I’ve shared with them. It’s hard to imagine doing this without them, or without your support._

_It’s getting dark and I’m running out of paper- if it’s not too much trouble, send me some more in your next letter. I look forward to smelling the scent of home captured onto small, fragile pieces of paper. I miss you and --_ some words are crossed out here, Sophia squints and smiles. ‘I love you’ can be seen through the scratched lines.

_Always, Liam._

She must read the last line twenty times or more until Mrs. Lincoln finds her in the garden, heaped over a flower bed, sobbing incoherently. Mary asks no questions and doesn’t expect any answers, but she holds Sophia for what seems like hours until she’s finished weeping. She ignores the chambermaids asking her what color the napkins should be for the charity function, she waves away Tad when he comes to kiss her goodnight.

Eventually she says softly, “It’s strange, isn’t it? How we all feel as if we’ve lost something.” Her voice cracks and her chest caves. “Even though we haven’t.”

“Not yet,” adds Sophia scornfully. “We haven’t lost anything yet.”

“Have we?” Mrs. Lincoln bites back as they walk, arms clasped behind their backs, through the dwindling twilight. “Because we don’t laugh anymore. Not like we used to. And we don’t feel the same way anymore. Not like we used to.” Her voice is strangled and choked as she laughs bitterly and waves a hand frantically about. “All the charity balls and Red Cross quilts won’t change the war, Sophia. We’re at war. We are at war,” her words hit the foggy air like daggers, piercing through the night. “And there is nothing we can do about that.”

Sophia stops walking and grabs Mary by the forearms. “But maybe there is,” she snapped in response. “Maybe instead of me dawdling my days around here pretending to be busy I could be putting my life on the line, too.”

Future Sophia smiles and looks back on Past Sophia. How little did she know what weight her words held. In less than 48 hours, she would be doing exactly as she proposed.

\-----

_November 8, 1861 – New York City, New York_

_“You’re really leaving?” asked Willie quietly. “Just like Liam?”_

_“I’m not leaving, Willie. I’m just going away for a little while.”_

_“Where?”_

_“To become a nurse.”_

_“Will you come back? Will I see you again?”_

_“Of course I’ll come back. Of course I’ll see you again.”_

“Miss Sophia Smith?” the secretary asks timidly, jerking Sophia from her jilted memories of the previous day. “Miss Dorothea Dix is ready to see you now.”

Rising to her feet, Sophia glances around the small dusty waiting room. New York. That’s where she is. And she is here to see Dorothea. Reference letter in hand, ambition in her heart, Sophia nods towards the secretary and proceeds towards the woman’s office.

She had left the White House the previous day, after saying goodbye to Willie and Tad and a hurried farewell to the Lincoln parentals. Boarding a train to New York, she had barely had time to process her decision to join the Red Cross before she was hurriedly booked into an interview with the one and only Dorothea Dix. “She’s only here for six more hours, miss.” The secretary- frazzled as she was, had informed her. “She’s taking a barge down to Missouri with a handful of her nurses- if you’re lucky, you just may join them.”

Exhaling shakily, Sophia closes her eyes and mouths the words silently. _You’re a smart girl._ This was for Liam.

_This was for Liam._

She knocks on the door quietly and is startled when a loud voice shrills, “We haven’t got all day, girl, get in here and get on with it.”

She enters the office hurriedly and sees a tiny, stern looking woman sitting at the desk.  Her edges are sharp- her nose, her pointy eyes, her bony fingers. She raises a pencil thin eyebrow and outstretched fingers. “Paper. Now.”

Sophia hands over her reference letter like it’s burning her fingertips. Dorothea raises her eyebrows slightly once she’s read it and hums lowly, “Mrs. Abraham Lincoln. How impressive.” She looks up from her paper and scrutinizes Sophia. “Age?”

“22.”

Dix sighed and waved a hand, “I won’t even bother asking if you’re married. If I had it my way, all my volunteers would be 35-50 and plain old Jane’s with no risk of exploitation whatsoever, however, things are not that simple.” With a harrumph and a _whish_ , she handed Sophia back her reference letter and snagged her own glasses off her pointy nose. “Since Bull Run we have had to relax our standards greatly. I take it you are not a woman of the cloth?”

“No, ma’am.”

“And why are you joining my little brigade?”

“To help. To make a difference.”

No one spoke for at least a half a minute while Sophia sat underneath Dix’s pointed stare. She seemed to be evaluating every inch of her- her hair, her eyes, every last freckle. She felt the need to squirm but restrained herself, and when Dix finally spoke Sophia gasped for a breath she didn’t know she needed. “Very well. You will be joining us on the barge to Missouri, as I’m sure lovely Mrs. Jenny-Can’t-Keep-My-Mouth-Shut informed you. Your pay is 40 cents a day, including housing, transportation and food, understood?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Be at the station by 3 PM sharp. Not a moment late, mind, or you can forget saving your beau like I know you want to.” Handing Sophia the address and the time printed clearly on a little scrap of pink paper, Dorothea waved her away. “Hurry up, I’ve got other girls to see. No fancy clothing and no hoops. No cosmetics.”

Several hours later, Sophia boards a barge to Missouri.  She does not look back, she does not pass go, she does not collect $200. She has always been the wallflower- growing up with older, louder siblings, helping Mama out, opting to read instead of go out with friends. Yet as she stared into the cracked mirror hanging in the docks one and only (dirty) bathroom, the fierceness and bravery she finds staring back scare even herself. She’s never felt like this before.

But she’s beginning to like it.

\-----

_Winter, 1861_

Winter tiptoes its way into the Union Army’s camp softly and quietly, finally dismissing the never-ending drizzle of rain with a wave of its icy fingers, and blowing through snow overnight. The camp awakes freezing and shivering, and while all of them still want to just snuggle up in their tents and never come out- Harry’s orderly comes to fetch him at the crack of dawn.

Her name is Perrie- the sweet thing, all the way from Oregon. She’s a beautiful little girl with a bright head, and a wonderful smile to go with it. But as she pops her head into Harry’s tent, whispering softly, no evidence of a smile can be found on her lips. “You have to come quickly,” she says softly through the tent as he gets dressed. “It’s typhoid, spreading like wildfire.”

In a flash his eyes fly back to the four bundled bodies still slumbering on the ground. His fingers are shaking as he pulls on his coat- and he’s about to join Perrie outside when a cold hand wraps around his ankle. Stifling a yelp, he turns to see Louis handing Harry his only jumper. “Take it,” he says softly. “You’ll need it.”

Harry takes it and blows a kiss to his four boys before departing from the tent. Perrie’s waiting for him outside and starts walking boldly throughout the camp. “Tripler says it’s bad, real bad.” Perrie’s breaths are short and stifled. “I don’t… I don’t know much. About typhoid.”

Matching his steps to hers as they barge through camp, Harry replies, “It starts as a fever, over several days. People get spots- rose coloured ones- all over their chest and body, then the other symptoms set in. Weakness, abdominal pain, constipation, headaches…” He sighs. “It’s bad.”

Perrie doesn’t respond, but she motions towards the field hospital. “We’re moving everyone who’s got it in there and keeping everyone else out here. You better go, Tripler’s, well. Tripler.”

Harry nods and turns away to go inside the tent- halts, then turns back around. “Perrie!” He calls after the petite blonde striding away. She turns and frowns at him as he runs up to her and throws his arms around her. “I-I… I just. I have to say goodbye. In case.”

As they draw apart Perrie looks deep into his eyes, searching. Knowing. She smiles softly and presses a kiss to Harry’s cold hand. “I’ll come get you, if anything happens to your boys, alright?”

 _Thank God for Perrie_.

“Y-yes. Yes, that would be lovely.”

“Styles!” Tripler roars from the hospital. “Stop socializing and come help, we’ve an epidemic on our hands!”

He works from dawn until dusk for days. After a certain point he stops feeling his feet- partly because it’s so cold and partly because he’s been standing constantly. Tripler and the other orderlies are no exception- he finds Perrie vomiting in a corner and sits for a few minutes with her, forcing soup down her throat. She’ll thank him later.

Eventually he finds himself asking the same patient the same question 15 times in a row and Tripler sends him home for a couple hours of sleep. _“Goodness gracious Styles, what is wrong with you? When’s the last time you slept? Perrie told me you were bandaging the wrong way… How many times do I have to tell you? Bandage to the left, not the right! Oh… You’re useless. Go home. Get some rest.”_ He stumbles his way out of the tent and straight into Perrie, promptly bursting into tears on her shoulder and sniffling as she guides him home, patting his head awkwardly. Liam’s trying to coax a fire when they find his tent, and reaches for Harry sympathetically, mouthing a thank you to Perrie. Liam leads him inside, where he collapses onto his bed.

Niall pokes his arm like he’s a dead fish. “Y’alright, mate?”

“Niall,” Zayn chides, pushing the Canadian away so he can take off Harry’s boots for him. “You hungry?”

Harry manages a small grunt as Louis makes his way forward, balancing a bowl of soup carefully. “Niall already spilled your first one,” he explains sheepishly as Liam moves Harry onto his back. “Here we go.”

Louis spoonfeeds Harry through the meal (he probably falls asleep at one point or another) and then tucks him into bed. The last thought Harry has before he falls asleep is what good friends he has.

**\-----**

When he awakes, Zayn and Liam are playing cards in one corner while Niall softly plays his guitar in the other. Louis’ curled up next to Harry like the perpetual human cat he is, but smiles when he sees Harry awake. “Hello, lovely.”

“Top of the morning to you,” Niall says loudly- followed by Zayn whipping around, _shh-ing_ him. “Sleep well?”

Yawning and propping himself of on his elbows, Harry shrugs. “It was nice to catch a few winks.”

Liam smiles fondly and pats Harry on the thigh. “I have a feeling,” he ponders. “That you might want to get down to the field hospital as soon as you can.”

Harry frowns and pulls on his boots. “What?”

When no one else in the tent comments, he knows something is up. He looks to Zayn and sees him grinning like a Cheshire cat. “What’s happened?”

“Go see for yourself,” Niall prods, picking out a lazy Dixie on his guitar. “And hurry up, she’s not going to be here for long.”

As Harry stumbles out of the tent and down to the field hospital, his thoughts are racing. Who could it be? His aunt? The president’s wife? As he turns a corner and waves to Tripler, his heart drops. Perrie. _Was it Perrie? Something must’ve happened. She must’ve contracted the disease- where is she, oh my gosh-_

“Well, well, well,” a voice says from behind him once he enters the field hospital. “Look at what the cat dragged in.”

He turns with a hand on his mouth to see the one and only Mary Edwards Walker smiling at him- stethoscope in hand, notepad in the other. “About time you showed up, we’ve got patients to treat.”

He can’t help but scoop her up off her feet and twirl her around the tent. “Why… Why are you here?” He manages to blurt out as he follows her like a sick puppy through the hospital.

“Women are doctors too, Styles,” she reprimands with a wink. “And Lord knows this army needs all the help they can get.”

There's no time for sweeping _I missed you so much_ ’s  or words of affection. Harry barely has time to process what's happening before Tripler's roaring at Grimshaw halfway down the aisle and yelling for Harry's help.

The work never stops. Harry works from sunup until sundown and through the night. He dries people's foreheads, administers medicine, draws blood, cleans sheets. He's so focused on his work and trying to complete the tasks at hand there's no time for a proper hello to Mary. But there's still moments. He's cleaning a patient's forehead while she prays with him, hair wisping over her sweaty forehead. She works twice as hard as anyone else. He thinks it's unfair how Grimshaw makes fun of her, how Tripler subtly puts her down when conversing with her.

Perrie, Meghan, Selena, Mary. They're all women- limited by the labels society has bluntly placed on them. Yet they are the heroes in the hospital, not Tripler or Grimshaw. They're the ones doing the gritty work, the stuff that counts.

He and Perrie find themselves next to a dying patient sometime during the night. A candle burns low on his bedside table as he recites his letter to Perrie. She dutifully writes it down. The candle makes her eyes glimmer, and Harry tries not to think how this is this man's last hour. On a makeshift bed inside a stuffy hospital surrounded by people he doesn't know, dying for a cause that he doesn't know will win. His name is James. James Bartlett. He's from Rhode Island and he had a wife and two kids. James tells Perrie to write it down, tells her to say he loves them. She does. She presses a kiss to his forehead.

And then he's gone.

Holy silence stretches out across the room as Perrie begins to cry softly. She doesn't make any noise, but tears are streaming down her cheeks. Harry realizes he's crying, too. It's the first patient he's ever lost. And he thinks of everyone he's ever lost- his mother, his sister, his aunt, his uncle. Life is so fragile. Loss is so mysterious.

Perrie reaches across James and pulls out his piece of paper tucked into his belt loop. James Bartlett, it reads. _Catholic_. _Born 1817._ With shaking fingers she attaches the worn paper to the letter and adds, trembling, _died 1861_. It's cruel and it's harsh but she looks so brave doing it, because she has to. They have to.

He grabs her hand and looks into her eyes and they keep crying. "How is it," Perrie eventually says. "That all the good ones. They're the ones that are taken."

Perrie doesn't know about Harry's parents or his relatives, but in that moment she does. In two sentences Perrie links her life and Harry's life together.

And Harry thinks that's what war does.

Links people together.

Perrie gets up and disappears into the night, stars burning bright above them. A gust of cold air passes through the tent. Later, Harry will remember this moment. For the rest of his life. He will never forget looking into James' still and glassy eyes, staring up the ceiling like he was still breathing, still seeing angels. He will never, ever tell anyone what he did- never tell anyone how he took the piece of paper from James' chest and tucked it into his pocket. As a reminder. It burns in his pocket, scalds him. But it reminds him of his shortcoming, how he mustn't fail. And that's important to remember.

For the rest of the war James’ ID paper will sit in his pocket, burning his flesh and leaving a disintegrating smell forever imprinted in his nostrils. It weighs heavy in his pocket, weighing him down, anchoring him. Drown him.

Either or.

**\-----**

_Christmas - 1861_

Christmas morning is periwinkle.

It’s still dark when his eyes sleepily blink open. The cold is surrounding them all like a vice grip on their precious lives, settling in their tent like it’s a permanent resident. But it’s Christmas. And you always wake up smiling on Christmas- maybe because that child in you is still there, thinking there’s presents to open underneath the trees. Except there isn’t. Not here, anyway. But it’s Christmas. And it’s not a time to be sad.

The sky's light blue, purple fluffs of clouds circling the horizon, embracing the sun. Harry sits outside, next to their fire, watching the sun rise on the Christmas day and he thinks it’s beautiful. How this is their life now. How it’s red and gory and bloody but it’s still Christmas. It comes and it goes but it will always be here.

It’s a strange concept, really. To think that, in years to come, their names will be written down in history books. And there will be some who paint this war out to be easy and breezy, which it never was. But there will also be some who paint the war long and crimson, blood staining the snow. There will be some who say war was never peaceful or enjoyable. And that’s the strange thing. Because- sitting here in the periwinkle sunlight, Harry inhales. He exhales. And he feels at peace.

There’s a muffled _oof_ behind him and he turns to see Zayn, sleepy but smiling, eyes twinkling at him. “Merry Christmas, gigglemug,” Harry says softly. Zayn sticks his tongue out and motions to the fire. “Coffee?” He murmurs.

“None left,” Harry responds. Yet it doesn’t matter. It’s Christmas and they’re alive and they’re together.

Zayn and Harry sit watching the sun rise for a long time until the others join them. Niall lugs out his guitar and plays a soft, quiet version of Silent Night on his guitar. No words are spoken, but as they watch periwinkle turn to lavender, turn to blue, turn to cloudy sapphire, they start to sing along. _Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright._

Harry’s mind drifts back to creamy Christmases in Holmes Chapel: Gemma playing on her violin, his mum on the piano. Christmas tree alit with candles. Presents being opened in pajamas. Hot chocolates steaming the air, the smell of hot cider and the traditional Christmas Roast. It’s hard to believe life passes by so quickly. He’s 23. Twenty-one Christmases were spent happily oblivious to the world around him. The past two Christmases… so much has happened. So much has changed.

 _Round yon virgin, mother and child._ Around them the camp starts to wake up, sleepily joining the Christmas festivities. Some of the men got lucky, the ones who used to live around this area. Their wives join them with the children in a tearful reunion and the rest of the men watch hungrily. Harry sees a young man sweep his daughter off her feet. They’re both crying. Niall keeps strumming. They keep singing. _Holy infant, so tender and mild._

Mary wanders over to their camp and she leans her head on Harry’s shoulder. With a pang, he thinks of everyone who hasn’t made it. Who’s not there with them. Niall keeps playing and Harry thinks he can almost see them- ghosts, dancing around the fire slowly. Their spirits encircle the camp that Christmas. And even though they’re gone, their peace. Their good tidings. Protect the rest of them. The ones still left. _Sleep in heavenly peace._

Harry remembers James, seeing angels.

Niall keeps playing.

They keep singing.

_Sleep in heavenly peace._

Farther down the river, past crisply iced, snow covered fields, past gingerbread houses tucked away in the mountains, past dying men sleeping in cold graves, Christmas is still being celebrated. Dressed in their nightgowns with dim lanterns shining into the musky cabin, Sophia and the five other nurses with her sit silently. They fight their own war, slowly but surely, as they travel throughout the USA, through the snow, through the sleet. Just yesterday they’d been ambushed by Confederate soldiers and had barely made it out alive. They’ve saved lives and lost many.

In the dusty cabin they wait for Dorothea to hear from another army general. It’s Christmas morning and they’re alone- Sophia on her bed, Lily braiding her hair. Taylor’s looking out the small, frosted window, twirling a piece of hair around her finger. Lana and Emma play a boring game of chess next to the murky, old piano sitting in the corner. They don’t know whose house this is. No one was here. They were cold. Dix told them to stay here.

Eventually Taylor starts to chew on her hair and pace frantically. “How long has it been?” she mused aloud. “How much longer will it take?”

“Stay calm,” Lana murmured, her boisterous New York tone soft and gentle for once. “She’ll be here. Soon.”

Lily hummed a soft tune as she finished Sophia’s hair, resting her chin on her shoulder. “When I joined the Red Cross,” she said slowly, “I thought… I thought it would be more exciting than this.”

Emma laughed as she won the chess game. “We all did, honey.”

“I expected handsome officers needing my help and begging for a drink of water,” Taylor giggled. “We’re lucky if they treat us as medical nurses.”

It was true. The Red Cross still had a long way to go to becoming recognized as a fully equipped medical organization. The nurses and women affiliated with it were treated as servants, housemaids and cleaning ladies, not registered, trained medical nurses. It was difficult. Frustrating.

Annoying.

Lana traced her fingers over the dusty piano keys and smiled. “When I was little,” she started softly. “My mama taught me piano because she wanted to be a preacher’s wife. And she said all good preacher’s wives had to know how to play piano.”

It was supposed to be funny. But they knew bits and pieces of the story; Lana had married a preacher. Jacob.

He had died at Bull Run.

Slowly, Lana perched on the wooden stool that bordered the piano. The room was clothed in holy silence, the kind reserved especially for Christmas. Her fingers pressed out a chord- out of tune and weary, but when Lana started to sing the chill, the cold, the dust- it fell away.

_Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright._

Her voice rang out clear and strong. It was easy to feel alone, discouraged, unwanted and unneeded when you were eight hundred miles from home in the middle of nowhere with no food or clothes. It was easy to feel like it was all a mistake. It was easy to be sad. But as Lana sang, as the girls all piled onto one bed, the war, the blood, the death, the disease drifted into the recesses of their minds for one precious, holy moment.

“When this is over…” Taylor whispers, voice hushed and quiet. The moment is hushed. No one interrupts her. “I’ll remember this.” Her tone is strong. Bold. “Our sisterhood. Not the blood, not the gore… I’ll remember you.”

They silently agree.

_Round yon virgin, mother and child._

_Holy infant- so tender and mild._

Sophia’s fingers close around Taylor’s, and though their bones are brittle and cold, their faces are smiling. She can’t help but wonder where Liam is, if Willie’s alright, if Tad’s enjoying his Christmas, if Mary’s murdered anyone yet. Her family is scattered across the country, torn apart by war and bloodshed and heartbreak.

_Sleep in heavenly peace._

That night, when everyone is asleep, Sophia softly pads to the windowpane and stares at the full moon, shining bright in the sky. Her girls are asleep behind her.

They’ll be okay.

That night, when everyone is asleep, Liam peeks out the flap of their tent and gazes tearfully at the full moon, shining down on their tent. His boys are asleep behind him.

It’ll be okay.

_Sleep in heavenly peace._

+

“A small but noteworthy note. I've seen so many young men over the years who think they're running at other young men. They are not. They are running at me.”

― Markus Zusak, _The Book Thief_

_+_

_February, 1862 - Mississippi River, near Virginia_

_Dear Liam,  
Hullo, how are you? How is the weather? We are in the capital now. It’s very dry and we have lots of snow. Sometimes when I’m cold at night in my bed I think of you. You must be colder. We sent you a little something to keep you warm at night. I hope it helps. I miss you a lot, very much. We’ve been writing you lots of letters but many of them have come back to us because people can’t find you. I hope you’re alright. I’m very lonely. Sophia joined the Red Cross and so it’s just and Tad, here, in this big white house. We get bored easily. Stuff gets broken on occasion. I keep you in my prayers and I pinky promise I’ve been doing my studies. Austin in the capital of Texas. Love, Willie._

_Liam,  
You might as well stop pretending you’re not sweet on Sophia because we all know you are. And it’s true. She’s joined the Red Cross. Before she left, she asked me to take of her boys- meaning you and Willie. She also gave me this letter to forward to you. Please come home soon. Willie isn’t himself these days. Respectfully, Tad._

_Dearest Liam,  
I’ve decided to pick myself up off the ground on do something for once. I’ve joined the Red Cross. I’ll be with Dorothea Dix. Please stay safe. I don’t have much time for frivolous goodbye’s…. But I will find you. I promise. I love you. Sophia._

In the package attached to the letters is Willie’s ‘something to keep you warm at night’… A olive green scarf. Handmade. Liam tries not to be a sap when he fingers it lovingly, thinking of the sweaty thumbs and dainty kisses pressed to the same fabric. He licks his lip and kisses the scarf.

\-----

“The greybacks think we’re attacking Fort Henry or Donelson,” Niall rambled as he noisily wolfed down his soup. “So they’re waiting like a bunch of hungry wolves over there, good ol’ Lincoln keeps telling McClellan to attack but his reluctant old arse doesn’t want to.” He devours Harry’s dinner roll and eyes Liam’s. “You gonna eat that?”

Liam hands over the moldy, soggy bread to Niall and frowns as he gobbles it up. _Canadians._

“Do you honestly find _enjoyment_ in knowing we’re marching off to battle soon? In the dead of winter with threadbare clothes and moldy bread to sustain ourselves?” Harry shot at Niall, fingers shakin.

“Woah there, muggins.” Niall chuckled. “I ain’t saying it’s a good thing. I’m just saying it’s happening. Telling it like it is.”

“Well I’m not sure if that’s the best-”

“Lou,” Zayn quietly interrupted Louis, looking down at the earthen floor. “Let it go.”

Everyone’s nerves were on edge. They hadn’t eaten _real food_ in weeks and their malnutritioned minds and bodies had been forced to march through winter, snow and rain for an apparent lost cause. They were famished, cold, wet and exhausted.

Later, Liam leaned against Zayn for warmth as they trudged through the afternoon along the banks of the Mississippi, looking for any game they might find. “I miss her,” he blurted, bursting into tears. The exhaustion and hunger finally caught up to him. “I miss her and I miss Willie and Tad and even Mary, on occasion.”

Zayn murmured sweet nothings into his ear as Liam cried, crumpled on the snow. “I know, sweetheart, I know.” It was strange, how roles could be reversed in a moment. Liam always tried to be the strong one, the resilient one. Resolute. It’s frightening to see what dire circumstances can do to people- change them, mold them, bend them.

Break them.

After a while Zayn clears his throat and speaks boldly, “Wait on the Lord: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart: wait, I say, on the Lord.” The Bible verse is from Psalm. Chapter 27. Liam- good Western boy, raised reciting Bible verses before he could go to school. It’s funny how we always turn to things like the Bible when we’re in trouble, when we need it. But not when we’re happy and everything’s fine.

“My mama,” Zayn started. “Was a mammy. You know that.” The ice on the river looks like an old lace doily Liam’s mother used to have. “And she would come home every night, all worn out, but she never….” Zayn’s voice trails off. Liam feels a harsh stab of guilt in his gut. There’s a hole in the ice, close to the shore. “There wasn’t a night she didn’t say that verse with us.” Inside the hole, underneath the ice, Liam can see the water churning, swirling, fighting. “And she never said… You know. She never explained _why_ she said that verse. But we knew.” A stick floats up and meets air. Rejuvenates. “We knew.”

Zayn’s pinky finger- cold, harsh- meets Liam’s and he smiles, looking down at the snow. “He shall strengthen thine heart if you wait on Him.”

“You should become a preacher.”

Zayn’s eyes twinkle as they make their way back to camp. “Someday, Payno. Someday.”

\-----

Scrub the surgery tables. Disinfect the equipment. Clean the sheets. Cover blank, glassy eyes with scratchy blankets. Collect last letters. Cut locks of hair. Seal envelopes. Listen to Tripler yelling. Pack up. Move. Load ambulances. Check emergency medics bags. _Twelve blotting chloroform sheets. Ten bandages. Seven anesthesia packets._

Harry runs his fingers over each item, eyes closed, fingers trembling, mouth moving. They’re all there. They’ve done what they can.

The hospital is mostly empty; the army picking up and moving once more. The fatal cases are being sent back to Washington, the others forced to rejoin normal army life. Harry looks at the beds: counts them, numbers them off. _James Bartlett. Matthew Andersen. Kevin O’Conolley. Henry Tonner._ Their ghosts stare at him from their places, brooding over the place where he stands. Their blood is on his hands. And he tries to forget.

But he never will.

Perrie finds him double checking all the medic bags. She sighs. He does this every so often. He’ll check the bags repeatedly, again and again and again. He’s so afraid of failing. “It’s inevitable,” Perrie says aloud. Harry jerks to look at her. She crosses the room and holds his cold hand in hers. “You can’t save everyone.”

An aborted sigh escapes his lips. “I can try,” he offers weakly.

Perrie’s eyes hold depths of sadness Harry can’t comprehend. She hums lowly and squeezes his hand. “Tripler says we can’t hold out much longer.”

Harry places the chloroform back in the bags. “What do you mean?”

“He says we need more help.” Perrie scoffs. “Which is hilarious, considering whenever Mary or I offer to do just that, he turns us down.” Harry snorts in agreement, folding the bags and placing them on the laden carriage containing the other medical things. “Harry… I was thinking.”

Something in her tone causes fear to curl in his belly and he swivels to look her in the eye. “What?”

She studies him. “When this is all over… I think.” She sighs, closing her eyes, then opens them again. Courage, bravery, strength. Emotions Harry will never possess are found in her ocean orbs. “I think I want to go to medical school. To become a doctor. Like you.”

Harry’s breath whooshes from him in a rush of gusty wind and he clasps hands over his mouth, eyes becoming watery. “Really?” He whispers. “Truly?”

Perrie starts to cry happy tears and she nods. “Really and truly.”

With a sharp cry of ecstasy, Harry hugs her and sniffs into her blouse. “I’m so proud of you, Pez,” he murmurs. “You’ll… You are a great doctor. Already.”

Perrie laughs. “Thanks, Styles.” She pulls back and studies his face. “No, really… Thank you. For believing in me. It means…. It means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

Later, Harry will look back on that moment and he will remember Perrie Edwards as the strongest person he has ever known. She was told all her life she couldn’t do it- by Tripler, Grimshaw, her own family. She was told continuously that, as a woman, she was not allowed to be brave and strong and courageous. She was not allowed to be honest, to follow her dreams, to fly. Yet she did all of those things. She scared people by her honesty- she did exactly as she said, and she never faltered in finding happiness. Perrie Edwards. Legend, brave warrior, lioness. Looking at her in the midst of a dingy army hospital, Harry can see her accomplishing so much. Even though she was told not to.

Of course, Fate always has the upper hand. Watching from the shadows, Fate smiles and licks her painted lips. _Maybe next time,_ she whispers. _Maybe next time._

\-----

All the great misfortunes of the world, all the ones people can’t understand. All of them. Every last one. Her fingers wove them together. Her voice lulled them to sleep. She was Mother Nature, Time and Space. She existed no where, but every where- all at the same time.

And it’s funny how she comes where we least expect her to.

It is on a cold, February day in 1862 when Fate breezes into the White House, where President Lincoln sits, hunched, at a table. The cold, harsh severity of her nature blows by his shoulders. He shivers. She hesitates, eying him- wise eyes, wrinkled by the curse of age. _Maybe next time,_ she whispers. _Maybe next time._

She passes through the doorways, lurking in the shadows, exemplified in things like alcohol, guns, stress, mental illness. She resides in Mary Todd’s room, tormenting her at night. Waking her up with nightmares. Now, she passes by the doorway and hears Mary singing a soft lullaby to herself. Fate smirks. _Maybe next time,_ she whispers. _Maybe next time._

Tad plays on the sitting room floor. He looks up when she enters, he sees her. It’s funny how children can always spot the monsters hiding underneath the bed and in the closet. As adults we’ve become accustomed to them, and we tell ourselves that they’re not there. Yet children can always see more than adults can. Fate bows in greeting to the young boy, raising an eyebrow at him. His hands still. He does not breathe. Respect, admiration, fear. Whatever it was, Fate turned and moved aside. He was not her prey. _Maybe next time,_ she whispers. _Maybe next time._

Fate turns to advance into Willie’s bedroom and Tad leaps up from his position on the floor. “Stop!” he cries. “What are you doing?” But she does not listen. His pleas tug at her heart, but it has already been hardened. She brushes past the boy, into the bedroom where the little one sleeps. Tad halts by the doorway. Fate’s heels click on the floor, advancing towards the bed. William Wallace Lincoln lies sleeping on the bed, curled in around himself. Ghosts of children from ages past line his walls, staring at Fate with wide eyes, singing haunting lullabies.

The ghosts still haunt her at night. Men, women, children. Whatever their story, each of them had something in common. Fate was the one that killed them. Fevers, wars, battles, heartbreak. Fate. She had been by every bedside table, every hospital bed. She’d held their souls as their loved ones clung to a body that was empty, hollow. Fate is haunted by humans. They are both beautiful and ugly, happy and sad. It is hard for her to understand how they can be both.

For a moment, Fate stops.

She turns, looks back at Tad, standing motionless by the door. She wonders what he sees. Most humans give her a sickle or a sythe, a hooded black coat that looks ten sizes too big. They portray her as a shriveled grandma who was never beautiful, never lovely. Humans are afraid to know what Fate looks like. But just this once, dear reader, I shall help you out. You want to know what Fate looks like? Go grab a mirror. Now continue.

She turns back to the bed and advances towards it, faster than before. Tad screams from the doorway and a nurse comes to him, asking him repeatedly _what’s wrong? Are you alright? Sir? Sir!?_

Fate smirks. _This is the time,_ she whispers. _This is the time._

Bowing close to the boy, she feels his breath on her cheek, sees fresh tears painted on his. Pressing a kiss to his neck, the red stain she leaves behind is signature enough. Death, life, sickness, health, deprivation, sadness, survival, recovery.

William Wallace Lincoln.

Fate.

For a precious moment, two dying stars collide in the sky and explode into a brilliant supernova. Fate turns and walks out of the room, carrying Willie’s tiny but heavy soul in her pocket. She passes Tad, screaming and wailing on the ground. She passes Mary’s room- hears her weeping, hears her sobs. She passes the President, still hunched at the table, head in his hands. And as Fate exits the White House, as she leaves the Lincoln family behind, she feels a tweak on her heart. She feels sad.

Because, while Fate kills and murders and avenges and harvests, she never asked for this. She never wanted this. Humans love to blame everything on her. And that’s the funny thing. Because, while everything is Fate’s fault, at the same time, nothing really is.

Humans choose death, after all.

\-----

_February 23 rd – 1862, Union Army camp_

The day Liam finds out is watercolor.

The sky is dripping blue into the sleet and snow that covers the ground like a damp blanket. There’s a line of pink on the horizon that’s slowly melting into the clouds above- lavender like lace, baby blue like beryl.

When a special officer from the White House comes barging through the camp, demanding to know where Private Liam Payne is, Liam likes to think- in hindsight- that he knows. He always knew. In his dreams the small boy with chocolate brown eyes and a haunting curiosity that will lurk over Liam’s shoulder. Maybe at first glance, all those days ago- standing in the street, looking at the nice little house with the white picket fence and the quaint and quirky family that lived inside, maybe Fate had nudged him then, all those days ago. Just a quiet _it won’t always be this easy._ So when the representative comes and hands him the short letter written on yellow paper, signed by a cold funeral home manager, Liam knows.

He's always known.

Sophia isn’t so lucky. She finds out the hard way. She’s in some town in Kansas bartering for some medicine where she sees the paper. She never got a letter- Mary didn’t know where she was, so she couldn’t have gotten one if she’d tried. But her little boy- Willie. The boy she’d cradled and fed and played with and taught and loved. Gone.

Perhaps that’s what hurts the most. Willie was just a boy. He never went to battle, never shot a gun. He never got to grow up and see the Wild West, or become a cowboy like he always wanted. He didn’t ask for this war. He was just a boy.

Of course, none of them _asked_ for this war.

Not really.

They didn’t ask for the bloodshed, the tears, the heartbreak, the death, the raging chaos. The fire. The rain. The torrent. The ghosts.

Because they all have ghosts now… Harry’s is the ID paper that he carries in his pocket, the way he counts all of the medicinal bags five times before he goes to bed and before he eats and in his sleep. _James Bartlett. Catholic. Born 1817. Died 1861._ Niall has nightmares from the life he left behind, his family. Sometimes at night they can hear him crying into his pillow for the brother he lost and the parents he never knew. Louis has dark circles underneath his eyes- roaming blackbird, never settled down. Blood stains his lungs and sometimes when it’s dark and the ghosts watch him, guard him, choke him, Louis can’t breathe. Zayn lives his life the best he can- enduring mockery, scorn. Zayn lost his mother. He never knew his father. His ghosts consist of the what-ifs, the dreams, the what could have been’s.

Liam’s ghost joins the list. William Wallace Lincoln. Died 1862. Little boy, angel, captain of the ship of dreams. Curious and clever, he had had so much ahead of him.

_I love you a lot very much._

_Austin is the capital of Texas._

Liam finds himself in an abandoned grave yard, in three feet of snow, staring at an empty grace marker. No name is inscribed, but in his eyes, there are. William Wallace Lincoln. Died 1862. He looks at the cold, frozen earth beneath him and exhales shakily. His little boy’s body would spend the rest of his life in the cold earth, buried beneath memories of years gone by.

When he was younger Liam had met a Mexican woman. She’d cleaned the house and cooked meals occasionally for his family when his mother was really sick. Sometimes she’d tell Liam stories of her religion. “In my country, we remember the dead. One day each year.” She’d stirred the soup and given Liam a gingersnap. “We remember them to keep them alive. In our hearts.”

Standing on the frozen earth in the middle of a graveyard filled with bodies he doesn’t know, Liam knows that he wants to remember.

He wants to remember Willie.

So he does.


	4. part four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s strange how the things that we don’t think affect us always do. It’s strange how we don’t truly see the value of something until it’s taken from us. Willie’s ghost looks somberly on, bordered by Liam’s mother. Hazy smoke carries them away, trailing cookie-crumb pathways behind them up to the heavens. Constellations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of a shorter one I'm afraid!

The winter is a long one.

Dusky and damp, the men trudge through drifts of dirty snow as they try to regain confidence. Liam walks in a haze. The other four leave him alone. They might not have known Willie, but they knew Liam. And through Liam they understood how much he had loved Willie as his own, how much he had meant to the Texan tutor. Little boy, angel, captain of the ship of dreams.

Gone.

Louis does Liam’s dishes for him and pretends not to notice when he barely eats anything. Niall plays for hours on his guitar as they squat around smoky campfire trying to stay warm. Harry does what he can, dishing Liam some extra salt or darning his stockings when he gets a chance. Zayn eyes Liam from across the campfire: slow and steady, burning the shell of a man. Slicing him open. Zayn doesn’t really say much.

It isn’t until April- Liam thinks it’s the first, when Zayn and Liam finally talk about it. “So you lost someone you loved,” Zayn says flatly as they’re marching towards Tennessee. “What are you gonna do about it.”

It’s not a question. Or maybe it is. Either way, Liam feels the dull glow of realization spark in his belly. Loss is such a funny thing, he realizes. Looking at Zayn out of the corner of his eye, he exhales. “I don’t know.”

Zayn laughs. “You don’t know.”

“No,” Liam responds slowly. “No, I don’t.”

They climb over a small fence, jumping on drifts of snow. It’s a murky day- the sun isn’t shining, and most of the men are more or less meandering their way across the countryside rather than actually marching. Harry and Louis are up ahead, walking side by side slowly, heads down and shivering. Niall’s following closely behind them, being the perfect chaperone. The trees are bare and through the naked branches Liam can vaguely make out a small graveyard. Simple wooden crosses adorn the dead’s eternal beds. He shivers.

“It seems to me,” Zayn is saying as they pass a clump of sage, eyes watching the ground where they walk. “That if you don’t know the solution to something, you ask for help.”

Liam’s heart drops at his words. Of course he’s right. Goddamn it, when isn’t Zayn right. Liam can’t think of a single situation where he wasn’t.

They don’t speak for a moment as they pass the graveyard. In his peripheral surroundings Liam can hear the other mean do the same. Their big army passes by the small, simple graveyard without saying a word. Maybe it’s funny. Maybe it’s morbid. But Liam thinks, more than anything else, it speaks of the gravity of one simple thing. Death. Each of them may have different stories, different backgrounds, but the war has taught them something that none of them can deny.

That death is inevitable, and loss is the harshest weapon.

“When you lose something you love,” Zayn starts softly- so soft Liam has to strain to hear it over the stomping of boots and the whinnying of horses and murmured conversations around them. “You lose parts of yourself with it.” He looks up to the horizon in front of him, frostbitten eyelashes fluttering softly against his cheek as he squints. “Maybe you gave your heart to someone, your trust. You put your faith in them. You shared secrets with them, kissed them, married them, had kids with them. Or maybe it was someone like Willie, or someone like my ma, or someone like Niall’s brother.” They maneuver around an abandoned wagon, wheels rusty and sunken into the snow. “It doesn’t matter who they were to you or how much you knew them. If you give something of yourself to them- if you love them. A part of you dies with them. My ma didn’t die. Or maybe she did. Either way… I lost her. And when I lost her, I lost a part of me too.”

Liam studies Zayn’s face in the waning twilight- so wise. So ancient. This man in front of him has lived centuries in his eyes, he is wiser and more knowledgeable than Liam will ever be. “My point is,” Zayn huffs as they clamber over more snow. “You’re allowed to be sad. But when you lose something, you have to find it again. I don’t care who you are or what you lost, you can’t just sit and expect those missing pieces to come back to you.” Zayn halts and grabs Liam’s shoulders, turning him towards him. “When you lose something, you have to find it. Okay?”

Liam starts to cry. He hasn’t cried since it happened. He hasn’t let it out. As the holy, pure water leaves his eyes in dusty tear-trails down his cheeks, memories circle their way around him. Willie’s ghost appears, hauntingly shadowy, in front of him. Thousands upon hundreds of moments, looks, breaths, exhales, sighs… all those seconds, minutes, hours that he spent with Willie. Remembered. Gone.

It’s strange how the things that we don’t think affect us always do. It’s strange how we don’t truly see the value of something until it’s taken from us. Willie’s ghost looks somberly on, bordered by Liam’s mother. Hazy smoke carries them away, trailing cookie-crumb pathways behind them up to the heavens. Constellations.

Zayn hugs him in the middle of hundreds of soldiers tramping to Tennessee. Eventually someone gets a horse and Liam climbs aboard. He falls asleep on the horses back- exhausted from the countless nightmares, the nights where he couldn’t sleep.

When he awakes he’s in their tent, the night stars glimmering through the coarse fabric. Niall’s playing softly on his guitar. Zayn and Louis are playing cards in the corner and Harry’s running his fingers over every item in his medicinal bag. When Liam starts to cough they all turn to him and smile widely. “You’re awake!” Harry cries happily and hands Liam a bowl of lukewarm soup. “For you.”

And in that moment Liam realizes that yes, he lost Willie. He lost his home and he lost Sophia, but he will find it and her again. And in the meantime? He has everything he needs right here. His four best mates, a bowl of lukewarm soup, shoes on his feet and a tent over his head.

Zayn winks at him from across the room and smiles.

Zayn’s always right.

Still, the realization of hope and that there is still life doesn’t dull the pain. Liam pulls his sleeves down over his scars and tucks his chin up, but some tears still pack their bags and trek their way down his dusty cheeks. Ghosts still haunt his dreams. Memories still leave their watermarked stains on his worn, barely beating heart. The boys all hold him through it. They all might not understand it, but they do. In a way. They’re all old enough to know the gut-wrenching pain of misery, of losing someone. Of their own ghosts.

One night Liam asks Zayn softly, “Why does it hurt so much?” Because it’s not supposed to. Thousands of people lose someone they love every day. He looks up at Zayn and he can see that he, too, has had tears trek down his cheeks. He, too, has tasted the bitter taste of heartbreak. Everyone has. Some, even, have done the heart breaking.

Still, it doesn’t excuse the nagging guilt Liam feels at being… _affected_ by Willie’s death so much as he is. After all, Willie was just his student. Not a son, brother, relative. Lover. Liam tries to swallow his sadness, tries to while it away… “Why does it hurt so much?” he repeats, softer still.

Zayn’s eyes blaze back to his; dying embers of a once lit fire burning somberly in his sunken face. “It hurts,” he said slowly, drawing the words out as if he were measuring them to see if they would fit. “It hurts because it mattered. Because it was real.” He looks about to say something else, then doesn’t.

Liam looks at him and feels a magnetic pull to another world, another life. Maybe in another universe things turned out differently. Yet pain is inevitable. Pain is eternal. Pain crosses centuries.

Winter transitions into spring. They fight in the Battle of Shiloh and they lose 13,000 men- more men killed than in any other American war combined. The numbers are printed on paper, burned in their minds. They try to shake it, try to keep going. And somedays are better than others. But each of them walk a little heavier, each of them smile a little less often. War takes its toll on all of them.

April is rushing rivers and yellow daffodils poking through the white snow. April is learning how to love again. April is packing up their bags in the middle of the night and leaving their worst selves for their better ones. April is marshy rivers and crisp forests. April is learning how to laugh again, April is murky puddles that you look into and don’t recognize the person who is looking at you back.

May is awakening on a crisp morning to find hoar frost draped on the trees, the grass, the lakes. May is intricate puzzles of blood and tears and sweat and healing. May is baby steps, slowly tottering towards the final destination. May is ‘are we there yet’s’. May is being okay.

June is nightmares and mosquitos. June is nostalgia, June is slow and steady. June is getting better. June is taking deep breaths, June is waking up at midnight and crying but getting up in the morning and laughing again. June is taking two steps forward and one step back. June is progress.

July is sweat, July is new leaders. July is waking up in the middle of the night drenched in your own sweat and falling asleep shivering. July is irony. July is five months since Willie died. July is easy.

By the beginning of August, they smile a little more. It’s a different smile, one that’s been through the wash. It’s faded and a little tattered, a little torn. It’s a smile with patches on the knees and mustard stains on the ankle. It’s a smile weary and bone-tired, but it’ll do.

It’ll do.

+

“You can have peace. Or you can have freedom. Don't ever count on having both at once.”   
― Robert A. Heinlein

 +

_December 13 th, 1862 – Fredericksburg, Virginia_

The day is grisly grey when he loses his lioness.

They’ve been working all day- Perrie, Tripler, even Grimshaw. Battle after battle had risen with increasing severity in the months of that cold winter. No one asked why. No one wanted to. But there were lots of unasked questions, lilted statements that perched on the edge of everyone’s lips like snowflakes on Christmas Eve- not melting, just singing its way through the flesh with an icy resoluteness that clawed its way underneath everyone’s skin. _Something is different. Something is about to change._

The funny thing about war is that you can never really tell who’s winning. This raises a peculiar question. Who decides who wins a war? I suppose it doesn’t really matter, the point being, for the people in the middle of a war, like Harry and Perrie and Tripler there that day by Fredericksburg, they don’t know who’s winning.

But as the casualties come flooding in, as the men die one by one underneath their reassuring, empty words, they sure as hell feel like they’re losing.

Last Harry’s heard they’ve managed over 11 frontal assaults to the Greybacks on Marye’s Heights. All of them have failed. The ambulances are overrun with men, bloody limbs. Some of them just boys. Others, grown men, weeping. Harry doesn’t like to think why. Somehow everyone who sees war- doesn’t matter how old you are- gets there sometime. War burrows itself underneath you and eventually exploded like a bomb, obliterating everyone and everything in the process. Sometimes you make it out alive. Sometimes not.

It becomes clear they can’t save all of them. Several of the ambulances come back without an operator, or one of them wounded or worse. Some of them don’t come back at all. Grimshaw wanders around handing out booze to those still alive to help with the pain. Harry sighs and sends him to get more beer and morphine. Grimshaw rolls his eyes and obeys.

Harry is working quickly over a boy with a shrapnel buried into his left thigh when Perrie rushes to his side. Her hair is stuck to her pallid cheeks with clumps of blood; her eyes blue and icy as they meet his. “I need to go into the field,” she shouts breathlessly as she turns away. It isn’t noisy, but Harry grabs her arm and shouts back. “What are you talking about?!”

She turns around, eyes flickering back and forth from his to the field behind him. “The ambulances,” she explains. “There’s too many of them down. I’m going to go with Freddie. We need to save some of the men.”

Everything is happening so fast. Tripler starts yelling at Harry to _save the goddamn boys leg, Styles, this isn’t an ice cream social! What in God’s good name are you doing? No!! No, here, oh for goodness… Bandage to the left, not the right! Why do I feel like I keep repeating myself? Styles!! Styles!?_

Perrie nods and pries Harry’s clammy fingers off of her bicep and scampers off. Grimshaw returns with the morphine, looking lost in the confusion.

“Please,” Harry hastily says, shoving his tools into Grimshaw’s arms. “Save this boy’s leg.”

Thankfully, by some small act of God’s good mercy, Grimshaw doesn’t put up a fight. Harry runs in the direction Perrie left in, trying to make sense of the kaleidoscope his world has turned into.

\-----

“Niall! Left!” Liam yells as Niall ducks and fires, successfully dodging a bullet.

“Gosh, Payno, need some help?” Louis jokes beside him. Liam looks down at his fingers to see them shakily trying to load his gun.

“How can you joke at a time like this?” he fires back, successfully jamming the shaft and squinting as he aims. Zayn turns around and motions for them to come forwards. They do so dutifully.

Louis shrugs. “Keeps the edge off.”

So far they aren’t dead. That must count for something. Liam would like to think that they might get a medal for staying alive at a time like this.

“You holding up?” Zayn murmurs through the hurricane, shooting a few rounds lousily and cursing under his breath.

Liam studies him out of the corner of his eye and nods. He’s fine. The nausea will come later- the crushing realization that they took someone’s life today. That he caused someone else the same pain he had endured when he had lost Willie. That thought, that realization… It’ll come. But not now. Not in the heat of the moment.

Liam’s preoccupied when it happens. Red hot searing pain, burning through his chest. It hits him like a wave, suffocating him and pulling him down, under. He falls onto his back and feels liquid soak through his uniform. Blood. His own blood.

Zayn starts screaming. In a moment Niall is there too, looking white faced and ready to be sick. He rips off a corner of his jacket and stuffs it into the wound. The pain is excruciating. Louis appears, shouting orders, locking eyes with Liam and that’s when it hits him. He could die here. Maybe not now, maybe not from a simple chest wound, but he could die. They all could. And every time he pulls a trigger on his enemy, on another boy just his age, he’s adding another odd to the pile. The pile that’s stacked against him; all of them. _“Seven to one,”_ he remembers Harry saying. _“Your odds are seven to one making it out alive after being injured.”_

His chest is heaving as the weight of it all comes crashing down on him, full force. Zayn picks up his torso and starts swearing at Louis to do his share as Niall sharp shoots some stragglers. As Liam is lifted off the ground, he catches sight of the snow where he lay moments before. The spot is soaked with blood; red liquid painting sad shapes onto the white ground. It’s all too much.

Everything goes black.

\-----

Fate has always had a soft spot for Liam.

After she had taken Willie, she had noticed Liam’s heart start to droop at the corners. It seemed to pump less blood, feel less feelings. It’s hard to try and remain unbiased, mind. Fate’s seen enough humans and few of them have managed to dog-ear her heart in the way the little band of scallywag warriors had. Few humans made her pause in her ceaseless, thankless job of carrying away the living. Transforming the dead into beautiful memories. But somehow, in some way, the little troubadour of five hooligans had snuck their way into her heart and gently placed yellow tulips on her front doorstep. She’d grown attached to them, you see.

Scary thing, attachment is.

So, yes. Fate always has a soft spot for Liam.

She’s standing in the middle of a war torn battlefield when it happens. The lights in his eyes start to flicker. She’s been collecting the lost flames for hours now; pocketing the souls of the ones now gone; their lithe lighthouse lanterns at last burnt out. She feels one of the yellow tulips on her doorsteps start to wilt.

Her heart cracks a little.

Once in a lifetime she makes exceptions. She will never tell anyone how she steps over the souls she’s supposed to attend to and makes her way over to the body of Liam James Payne; braveheart, always keep the heavy mask of hero on. For a moment she hesitates, hair blowing in the wind as she exhales. Louis feels a chill creep down his back, turns. There she stands.

For a moment he sees her. Louis’ always had a keen awareness of the supernatural. Some say those who do are destined to become a component of the supernatural themselves. Whatever the reason, Louis saw her. Standing in a yellow sundress, exhaling. Breathing. Contemplating.

He doesn’t say anything. The battle rages on. But Fate narrows her eyes, raises her chin. It’s a dare. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth.

Life for life.

Louis looks back down at the retreating figures of Liam and Niall carrying Liam off to the hospital. His mind shoves memories, pictures of all the people Liam loves and that love Liam into the forefront of his mind: his father, Mary, Tad, Sophia. People who are gone: his mother, Willie. Louis stomps his mind into the mud and stubbornly refreshes the people who love him. The people that he loves. He exhales shakily as he realizes that _home,_ that _family,_ for him, has always been right here. Wherever his two feet are planted.

Fate wishes she can change the rules. Fate wishes she could play the right cards. But that’s not how the game works. You play it right, you play it fair, or you get disqualified.

Louis looks back at her and nods firmly. Just one, strict nod that altered history. Who knows what might’ve happened if it had all turned out differently. Who knows.

No one. No one knew.

And that was the beauty of it.

\-----

Perrie’s already halfway out to the battlefield by the time Harry catches up to her ambulance, breathlessly tugging on her dress. She rolls her eyes and sighs, shrugging at Aidan- the other buggy driver. “Give me a mo,” she muttered and hopped down, clenching her fists onto Harry’s biceps. “What do you want?”

Harry focused his eyes on her, tightening his jaw. “Please don’t go,” he whispered. “Please… I can’t lose you.”

Perrie’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and fallen in love with me, Styles,” she said lowly. Harshly.

“No, not at all,” Harry rushed. “I just… I can’t lose you, too.”

Perrie’s eyes flicker with feelings, memories, ocean tides that will never quite reach the shore. “We can’t live like that, Harry,” she murmurs. “We can’t not play our turn. There’s men out there,” she cast a wild gesture out towards the vast expanse of the battlefield, “who need our help. My help. And if we refuse to live our lives on the edge, if we refuse to play our turn… Someone loses them too.”

She climbs back onto the ambulance. Everything happens so quickly. There’s no promises of reunion, no kiss on the cheek. As Aidan moves the horses on, Perrie looks back and winks. “Stay out of trouble!” she yells. Her shoulders were strong, straight. She made broken look beautiful and strong look invincible. She walked with the entire universe on her shoulders and she carried it so well it looked like a pair of wings.

Later, Harry will look back on that moment and he will remember Perrie Edwards as the strongest person he has ever known. She was younger than him and had been constantly repressed all her life. She had never known love. Yet she still gave herself completely to everything she put her mind to. She scared people by her bravery- she did exactly what she was afraid of doing, and she never faltered in proving others wrong. Perrie Edwards. Legend, brave warrior, lioness.

It’s funny how war does that to people.

Weaving them together.

\-----

“Niall!” Zayn’s shouting at the Canadian as Liam’s gaze flickers between memories, moments, snapshots. The past. The present. “Niall, we’re losing him, we have to…”

The warm yellow tunnel in his mind is become fuzzier and so inviting. If he squints hard enough he thinks he can see his mother and Willie standing side by side. _Come join us. Come home._ Still, Zayn won’t let him go. “Liam,” he prods. “Liam, stray with me, gigglemug.” His voice is strained. Something in it pulls Liam back. He hazily opens his eyes to see the scallywag warrior, Zayn Malik, gazing at him with pools of emotion forming in his eyes. Some are dripping down his cheeks.

Liam would be lying if he said he wasn’t touched. Zayn always kept a mask on; brave warrior, no chinks in the armor. He played the part well. Sometimes Liam forgot that Zayn felt feelings, too. Maybe not so transparently as others, but he did. And it was touching to note that Zayn felt feelings for him.

The warm, yellow tunnel fades from his eyes as an ambulance pulled up beside them. He vaguely recognizes Perrie, of all people, hopping down from the ambulance. She swore and checked his pulse, yelling at Aidan to pull forward. Carefully the others lower Liam into the back of the ambulance. So much is happening, all at once. It’s hard to keep his focus steady.

Fate hesitates by the end of the wagon, watching as Louis and Niall and Zayn help Liam get comfortable in the back of the ambulance. He lies beside two wounded soldiers, moaning and groaning in pain. The other three are dead, their souls heavy in Fate’s pocket. For a moment, Louis looks up again and their eyes lock. Fate feels a tiny tug at her heart.

Liam’s lights are flickering, slowly. She cups it in her hand, ignores the cries of Perrie and Zayn as they note Liam’s fading pulse. Cupping the small, flickering soul in her hand, she blows life into it, rekindling the flame. She can only do so much. Fate wishes she could change the rules. She can’t.

She can bend them.

Ignoring the tears of Zayn that break her soul, Fate leaves the miserable battlefield and vanishes from the grisly plain to a little roaming band of troubadour Red Cross nurses wandering outside the small village of Daffan, Virginia. The troop is led by stern-faced Dorothea Dix. She and Fate had met before. By bedside tables, hospital corridors. Dorothea Dix and Fate had wrestled time and time again over the lives of Union men. Fate had won some, but Dix had won more. Dix didn’t give up. And her women didn’t either.

There was Taylor following shortly behind Dorothea, Lily, Lana, Emma. A few strangers which Fate didn’t know- a haggard looking African-American with a sad, haunting story behind her eyes. There were others, too, ones that Fate hadn’t encountered yet. She knew she would. Today, tomorrow, twenty years from now. Everyone met Fate at one time or another.

At the end of the pack was Sophia. The girl Fate was looking for. Fate brushes by her and whispers down her neck the thought of Liam. Sophia’s gaze jerks up and her mind floats over memories of Liam, resolve strengthening her once more. Fate gazes at the small, infinite soul in her cupped hands. The lights flicker. They do not go out.

Yet.

Fate moves ahead of the group and kicks a tree, blocking their path. Dix swears and Fate pushes them down path after path, frantically hurrying them along. It’s only a matter of time before mere thoughts and memories give way to Death.

Finally, they reach the Union camp. Fate weaves the story carefully- Tripler comes forward, greets Dorothea, hurries her and her women towards the tents. Perrie’s bringing the wagon in- Zayn and Louis running behind. Niall’s ahead of them, finding Harry, telling him what happened. Fate keeps the small soul in her hand, praying to whatever God there is that they do not let her down.

Because Fate can bend the rules. She can bring people together. But she can’t force them to do anything. Their choices will be the ones that define today, not hers. Try as she might, she can’t keep Liam alive unless they try hard. She is not violent. She is not malicious.

She is simply a result.

Sophia follows Lana to the tent where the ambulances are coming in. Men are lying bloated and dead on the floor, some barely alive. The scene- she’s seen it dozens of times before- but it strikes her every time. How fragile life really is. How it can be taken from any of them from any moment.

Liam’s face comes back to her, the crows feet around his eyes when he smiles. Something crawls down Sophia’s spine as she stares at the bloated, deathly figures that crowd around her feet. He could be one of them. Please, don’t let him be one of them.

Suddenly a shout of her name ricochets off the walls of the hospital tent. A tall, lanky medic with curly brown hair rushes towards her. “Sophia? Sophia Smith?” he asks breathlessly, as if hardly believing his eyes.

She frowns and nods slowly, confused. “I’m sorry,” he rushes. “I’m Harry, Liam’s friend. I don’t know, maybe you’ve heard of me-” he rambles on as the realization dawns on Sophia. _Harry._ Cornbread Harry. Scallywag warrior Harry. A rush of emotions floods her in the oddest way; they’ve never met, but they know each other deeply even still, simply by the link of a mutual friend.

“It’s… As if Fate…” Harry’s murmuring things and then grabs her forearm tightly. “It’s Liam. Today. Just a while ago… He got shot.”

The words hit their target directly. They’re like an arrow that flies past Harry and into the chink in Sophia’s armor; aiming to paralyze. Maybe they do. The tent goes quiet as the words explode within her; loud and deafening, yet perfectly serene and foreseen at the same time. Lana turns to Sophia, face white as ash. “Soph….” her words trail off. She says something else but Sophia can’t hear her.

She turns back to Harry, shaking her head. “Is he… What?” She can scarcely believe it. Fate stands in the corner, fingers crossed, bouncing on her toes. Liam’s light is dull now. Only a few more moments until it can no longer be revived.

Fate should not have underestimated Sophia Smith. For Sophia Smith was not a wallflower, the student in the back row, the alto in the third section that sings quietly under her breath. She was not that woman any longer. As the words settle like dust in her heart, Sophia raises her chin and pushes past Harry. She will not go down without a fight.

She strides down the tent and looks for Liam. A magnetic pull draws her towards the third bed in the fourth aisle. She’s never believed in soulmates—but maybe she does now. She approaches the bed and sees three men hovering over it. Ironically Emma’s already there, pushing them out of the way. She doesn’t know who he is.

Sophia doesn’t, either. She tries not to think of the years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds that have gone by from when she last saw him. He looks peaceful now, sleepy. His face is dirty but she can tell by just looking at him that he doesn’t smile as much anymore. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, she faintly remarks. To think the person you love has changed so much. To think you weren’t there to see it. To think you’ve changed alongside them. Perhaps even without realizing it.

Emma looks up as Sophia approaches. “Pulse is weak, heart’s stopped. If we’re gonna save him we need to do it now. I can manage, you should go try-”

Lana interrupts, “Emma… It’s Liam.”

Emma looks up abruptly. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion but Sophia knows it’s happening quickly and steadily. Her eyes flash back to Sophia and then to Lana. As if in a dream, she backs away from the bed. Turning, she orders sternly, “No dawdling. You’ve trained to do this, no weeping. Pull it together and get him sorted.”

With those words, time speeds up again. Sophia nods and turns back to the bed, where the three men and Harry, standing pigeon-toed in the corner, stare at her. Harry knew her. They must know her, too.

There’s no time for messy reunions or questions. Sophia clears her throat, closes her eyes. Opens them. Her armor is back on. She is ready for anything.

With steady fingers she tests his pulse. Weak, like Emma said. Heart stopped maybe five minutes ago? “How did it happen?” she asks strongly, assuredly. Maybe she wants the answer. Maybe she doesn’t. She takes off Liam’s uniform with sure hands, breathing slowly and surely. Her heart feels like it’s being torn in two when she sees it; the wound, square in his chest. Two inches? Inch and a half? From his heart, from his lifeline.

Time is running short.

She grabs the forceps and the scalpel and sets to work. She vaguely hears one of the boys- Niall? Gag and start to throw up. Ironic, isn’t it. She’s become so desensitized to her work that she doesn’t even view it as _flesh_ anymore, doesn’t view the blood as _blood…_ Just fabric, thread. She’s just mending a torn shirt.

Except she’s not.

She extracts the bullet and then starts mending the wound. It takes seconds; she’s done it a million times before. Faintly she muses how many times it had saved a man’s life or done nothing good for him. She prays it saves Liam. She prays she can save Liam.

As soon as the wound is mended she injects adrenaline into his system, then starts pumping. She prays. She can feel the tension of the four boys around her. She knows they will blame her if it doesn’t work.

Then it comes.

One glorious moment. Just as she’s about to give up, just as she’s about to give way to the threatening tears that start to spill over, there it is. One tiny breath. One small gasp for air, one cling onto the yellow thread of life and light and hope that Fate’s dangling in front of him. He inhales and his eyes open. And Sophia knows it’ll be okay.

Her hands stop their pumping. Zayn bursts into sobs, sagging against Harry. Niall swears and immediately drops to his knees and prays. Louis crosses himself. The moment is holy. The only ones not crying are Liam and Sophia.

Through a hazy, golden smoke Liam can see Sophia. Her red hair is illuminated by a candle that’s burning on the nightstand. At first he blinks, swallows. He must be dreaming. Sophia isn’t here. She’s somewhere with the Red Cross, anywhere but here. The only thing that could’ve ever even possibly brought them together is Fate. It’s impossible.

But it was possible. She smiled watery as she started to cry and laugh all at the same time. Her hands were bloody and she held a syringe in one palm. He put the pieces together. He feels tears start to dribble down his cheeks, too. It’s too much. All too much. Memories of lavender and blue walls come rushing back to him- them sitting on the bed, her kissing him. _You’re my hero, Liam James Payne. Don’t let me down._

_Don’t let me down._

“Did I let you down?” are the first words he says to her after two years of being apart.

She laughs. She remembers. Shaking her head hurriedly, she affirms, “No. Never. Never in a whole lifetime.”

It’s beautiful, really. Beautiful how Fate brought these people together and they responded. Beautiful how threads of a tapestry- no matter how frayed or messy they may look on the back- come together and look brilliant on the front.

That’s when it happens.

That’s when Harry loses his lioness.

Aidan comes bursting in to the tent, breathless. Shaking. “It’s Perrie,” he shouts with a harsh exclamation towards Harry. “It’s Perrie, she got caught in the gunfire.”

Harry’s face turns white and he steps away from Liam’s bed. Louis looks after him, spots Fate slinking along beside him in the shadows. Supernatural, celestial, mythical. He always considers those things at times like these.

Harry follows Aidan outside to the back of the ambulance. Maybe he expected it. His mind goes back to losing his mum, his sister, his uncle, his aunt. There’s a lot of things to be said, a lot of things for him to be thinking of. It’s like when your teacher asks you a question in math class and you know you should be thinking of the answer but instead you’re thinking of the yellow socks of the girl two seats in front of you.

Harry’s soul is surprisingly quiet and somewhat calm when he rounds the back of the wagon to see Perrie lying in a pool of her own blood- still pristine and beautiful. He should be screaming, wailing. Running away. But as his brows furrow and he studies her lying there, Perrie’s words come rushing back to him. _We can’t not play our turn._ _There’s men out there who need our help. My help. And if we refuse to live our lives on the edge, if we refuse to play our turn… Someone loses them too._

Harry tries not to think of the irony. He tries not to mentally diagnose Perrie’s inept outlook on her own awareness. Because he had loved her. In a very platonic fashion, mind, but Perrie Edwards had taught him so much in so little time… He was fascinated by her. Fascinated by her shallow yet spacious view of the world, her insecurities, her brave, courageous enchantment of everyone she knew. She was the kind of girl who searched for the things that could never be found; she made it look so effortless, to accept the hand fate had dealt her. Sometimes, Harry thinks, sometimes people are just so damn beautiful. Not in what they look like or what they say, but simply in the way they choose to be exactly that. Beautiful. Stunning. Courageous.

Perrie Edwards.

Lioness.

That night, when the sun goes down and the stars come up in the sky, Harry watches miserably as the orderly’s lower bodies- Perrie’s body- into a common grave. He’s seen it done before. He’s done it before. Every night they’ve done this, bury their dead. Lick their wounds. They conceal it in the darkness of night so that no one can see their weakness.

It had made sense until now. Now, it just seemed wrong. Perrie had died defending her country, trying to save her boys. And the other bodies being drowned in damp, brown soil were the same. It wasn’t like they were criminals, or convicts. They were heroes. The best kind. They deserved a proper burial, with a nice funeral and a priest and a tidy little reception. But that wasn’t what they got. Their names would be forgotten; their bones turn to dust underneath a common grave where feet would trample over them unknowingly.

He tries not to picture himself down there, bones tangled with the dead souls of long lost heroes. He doesn’t believe in God, or Fate. But as he turns away from the grave, he sees Liam and Sophia walking together side by side. He sees his boys cooking a pot of stew over a lackluster fire. He sees those who are living. Yin and yang. Bad and good. Life and death.

He could choose to focus on Perrie, and her sacrifice, and what she gave up, and what she didn’t accomplish, but he knew her well enough to know that’s not what she wanted. Because you can always focus on the bad. There’s enough sickness and war and death and disease in the world to let that be your main focus. But it takes skill, strength and courage to focus on the good.

When he closes his eyes, he sees her face- not as it was in the end, but as it was in the beginning. Asking him questions about tuberculosis. Studying medical procedures carefully. That’s how she would want to be remembered. That’s how she should be remembered.

\-----

_December -- 1862_

Christmas weighs heavy on their hearts.

It passes by quietly, like a child creeping to grab one last cookie before mum finds him, awake, in the kitchen. Christmas morning they lie in bed. Christmas afternoon there are drill exercises.

Nothing special, really.

Christmas evening a band of them travel out into the woods with some leftovers and find a huge pine tree, dusted lightly with icing-sugar-snow. They laugh and sing a boisterous rendition of Deck the Halls. They decorate that big pine tree with hard tack and salt pork, pretend it’s like they’re home, where they should be. Pretend the ghosts circling around that tree, the ones that sing along softly to the carols that they sing… Pretend they’re not there. Pretend that the bags underneath their eyes, the scars on their limbs, the sadness in their hearts are all just fake, imaginary ideas. It’s easy to pretend when the tree’s being decorated, when the lanterns are still lit. It’s not so easy to pretend after dark, when they’re asleep, when the ghosts make their tent cold and wet and damp and dark. Pretending turns into precaution.

But it’s Christmas.

And it’s not a time to be sad.

In the middle of the night there’s a soft sound of singing in the corner of the tent. Louis’ awake- he can’t sleep, and Harry can hear him very softly whispering the words the _Silent Night._ Harry lies there for a while, thinking how ironic and wonderful and absolutely beautiful it is to have moments like these. In the middle of a bloody war, where the unwilling are led by the unqualified to kill the unfortunate and die for the ungrateful. Moments like these, so precious and so holy Harry wishes he could bottle this moment and keep it in his pocket. Save it for a rainy day.

He breathes deep as Louis continues to sing.

He wants to remember this moment.

So he does.


	5. part five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry thinks of all the times he’s been scared. Most days he was, most of the time. He thinks back to the trip to Charleston, to everything between that day and now, all the time he was scared. He realizes with a start that he is not the same man he once was. He realizes that fear is still a part of his entire being, and most likely always will be. And he realizes that he ran from most things that made him scared. But he also realizes that he became stronger, more independent, that he answered some of his own questions and fell in love along the way, once or twice, because eventually he learned to accept this: that fear is a part of life. That running makes you healthier, stronger. And that when you reach the end of a race, and you cross the finish line, you don’t need to keep running towards the next marathon. You can stop. You can smell the roses.

+

“The world is full enough of hurts and mischances without wars to multiply them.” 

\--J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Return of the King_

+

At some point in every story the pages start to blur together. Some authors call it rising action, further complications. It’s the point before the climax. All stories have it. The characters’ problems keep building, mounting, rising before them in an insurmountable pile.

The action before the climax.

Many years after the war, as we have already mentioned, Harry could hardly differentiate between the battles. Between the winters, the Christmases, the deaths. It became nearly impossible to associate dates with places, people or things. It all began to blur together in a messy, watercolour _smush_ of faint memories. Associations.

It’s funny what we associate, however.

He associated January with the Emancipation Proclamation, with the look of sheer hope and disbelief on Zayn’s face. Burnside is replaced, Hooker takes charge.

February is associated with slushy walks through southern Virginia. It’s associated with the sight of crumbling mansions- once homes of people very much like his Uncle Rutledge and Aunt. It’s associated with the realization that the South- the home he had so privately missed for these two long years- was now burning and crumbling to the ground. Because of him. Because of the men around him. Odd.

March is drafts, numbers. Percentages. The blood of a poor man is less precious than that of the wealthy.

April associates itself with Richmond. It associates itself with Falmouth, Virginia. Winter quarters, melting into spring. Lincoln comes to review the troops. Liam has a chance to meet and talk with the president, since he used to be Willie’s tutor. When they say their goodbyes after a long walk, Harry catches a glance of Lincoln’s eyes. They look so tired, so worn.

May is Chancellorsville. Jackson dies. Hooker retreats. Harry begins to associate battles like that with number, tally marks in his head. _17,000 killed, wounded or mission out of 130,000 for the Union._ He doesn’t want to know the Confederate stats.

June is when the haziness of it all starts to become more clear. June is George Meade replacing Hooker. Fifth man is less than a year. June is hot, sweaty nights. Nightmares. June is waking up next to his brothers, his mates. Staring at their faces. Wondering if they might soon be gone.

July hits them with a bolt of reality. The first dawns with a grey light; foggy. Pennsylvania. The grassy plains of the fields move like the ocean in the early morning dawn. He stands on the edge of the grassy embankment and watches the sun rise. In the clear dawn of the morning, he can faintly see Lee’s army camped several miles away. It’s terrifying to think that, in a few short hours, they will be clashing in a great struggle for power.

Liam awakes slowly next to Zayn, finding the latter studying his fluttering eyelashes. Louis and Niall are still asleep behind them (Louis gnashes his teeth and Niall snores). In a soft, almost inaudible voice, Zayn whispers, “Today’s a big day. I can feel it. In my bones.”

Liam nods sleepily. He tries to ignore it, most days. That feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you just _know._ But some days you can’t ignore it. Some days it’s the truth.

He crawls out of the tent and finds Sophia, helping Harry make a meager breakfast. Smoke rises from the damp fire and curls into the foggy air. She rises from the fire and greets him with a kiss. “Good morning,” she says- and even something in her voice is quieter. Reverent. Cautious.

He smiles and sits down next to Harry. His fingers are trembling. The medic’s bag is sat next to Harry on the ground, which means he’d been going through it twenty times this morning like he always does. Liam’s seen it done before. He’s seen the ID tags Harry keeps in his pocket, ragged and torn. Knows what they mean.

He’s not one to pass blame. Who knows. They could all end up as ID tags in each other’s pockets. Someday.

Niall comes out with Zayn, rubbing his eyes and twiddling his thumbs. He accepts some coffee from Sophia and sits by Liam, sipping it slowly. “What a beautiful morning,” he says slowly. “The first of July is always so gorgeous.”

Zayn catches Liam’s eyes from above the fire, then looks back down at the ground. Leave it to Niall to make a comment like that, on a morning when they’re all feeling down in the dumps. The Newfoundlander goes on to talk to Zayn about politics, mentioning far-away names like Thomas D’Arcy McGee and George-Etienne Cartier. It’s all Greek to them. Most of the things Niall talks about are.

“Where’s Lou?” Harry asks Liam. He looks towards their tent and sighs. “Writing in his journal, I think,” Liam replies. He did that sometimes. It was a little unsettling.

A Union drumboy raced by then, shouting at them to get ready and telling Harry that Tripler was screaming bloody murder for him. Scurrying, Styles rushed to the tent, halfway to grabbing his uniform, when Louis stepped out. They exchanged a brief smile. Louis looked like he’d been crying. Harry didn’t pause to wonder why.

Perhaps he should have.

Quickly, they down their coffee and soggy porridge. Harry checks his bag one last time. Niall cleans his and Zayn’s gun. Liam extinguishes the fire.

Louis stands, like a lame duck.

They were all so busy they didn’t see how he faltered. In years to come they will regret their rush, regret the way they prodded him and joked and didn’t acknowledge the fear they all felt. If they had stopped, perhaps they would’ve seen how his eyes lingered to the left. None of them could see her; Fate. Standing there, looking at Louis with those sad eyes.

It was almost like Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. Pleading with the father to take the cup of sorrow from him. Sweating blood. Crying out. While his disciples slept.

Once they’re all geared and ready to go, they turn to Louis and they all embrace in a group hug. Smiling broadly, they exhale and link their pinkies together. Like they’ve done so many times before. So many memories, linked to one simple gesture.

Pinky promise.

And off they go.

\-----

It’s very picturesque.

They’re all charging as they were told, together. In a big line. Up a hill and by some haystacks. Very beautiful, very poetic. All ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’.

Love and war.

War and love.

A bullet weaves its way through soldiers and finds its target, piercing the flesh. To Louis, that single moment- the moment of the bullet piercing the skin, is that heaviest moment of his entire life. Moments flash in front of his mind. It’s strange, the things that come back to you. His mum. His sisters. The little farmhouse where he’d grown up. Niall. A distant place called Nova Scotia. Harriet. Zayn. Liam. Willie. Harry. Uncle Rutledge.

He's falling then, onto his back. He can’t breathe. He feels his heart pounding- it fills him, throbbing and pounding, grasping for air. Life. He knew this was coming, of course. He can see Fate hovering beside him, tears in her eyes. Selfless Louis. Life for life. Death for death. All that.

What they didn’t know was that he wasn’t so selfless. Maybe he was. It’s just, well. You don’t feel very selfless, do you, when you’re dying in a war with half a million other names piled up beside yours in the obituaries. And when you’ve got no one- no family to speak of, no home. When you’re just a wandering wayfarer as Louis was, as he’d always been… You don’t feel very selfless.

That’s the point of death, isn’t it. When you’re dying you see yourself and those around you for what you really are. Stuff and things don’t matter, when you’re dying. Just life. Life’s what matters. Just as it’s about to end.

Liam’s the first to figure it out. How ironic. He screams for Zayn. It all sounds muffled. He’s so tired, he could just- _no._ Liam’s yanking him up, crying. Why is he crying? He’s wounded. Not big a deal. His mind’s too foggy to understand.

Niall’s pushing them this way, that way. He flags down an ambulance. Sophia’s at the helm, helped by that lovely girl… What was her name? Lana. Lana. They’re cursing and then the ambulance gets stuck in the mud. Lana’s pushing it, mud up her skirt. Triggers another memory. Lottie, farm. Skirt, blood. Crimson sky. Bloodbath. Gettysburg.

They’re trying to stop the blood and Louis finds he can’t breathe. He tries to push them away and Liam screams at Sophia to _stop it, you’re hurting him! Can’t you see!?_ He wants to talk, make a joke to ease the tension. Calm their nerves. But he can’t. He can’t speak. He can’t breathe.

He can just walk away.

When he was little boy he was terrified of death. Perhaps he still is. As he looks into Fate’s eyes- tearful and watery, he questions what he’ll find when he leaves. It’s terrifying, to think of it that way. Leaving this entire world- all he’s ever known, Liam, Niall, Zayn. Harry. To just _leave_. To just _walk away._

His eyes flicker back to Liam, crouched over him, Zayn squatting behind him, Niall at his feet, Sophia and Lana maneuvering the ambulance closer. His eyes go back to Liam’s. They fill with tears. He’s not afraid of death. Nor fate.

But he is afraid of leaving his boys.

In a slow, heavy movement, he lifts his hand to Liam’s and locks pinkies. Payne starts to sob uncontrollably, realizing the significance. Niall latches on to, then Zayn. Harry isn’t there, but he is in spirit. With his pinky linked together with the four people he loved most in this world, he lets go. He walks away.

He picks himself up and he can breathe. Turning back to his boys, he can see Liam collapse on the shell of who he used to be: Louis Tomlinson. Selfless. Proud. Arrogant. He can see Sophia’s shoulders drop, Niall crosses himself. Zayn embraces Liam. Their pinkies are still locked, with his cold, dead one.

He turns away and looks at the carnage around him. Men, everywhere. Their spirits leaving their body and joining him. It hits him. So that’s what he is now. A spirit. No longer a person.

Fate turns to him and for the first time he can see her properly. It’s a strange coincidence. Of course she’s not human. And she doesn’t look like the grim reaper. She looks a bit like himself, actually. Human. Flawed. Broken.

Complete.

One last time, Louis looks back at his boys, crowded around the body he used to inhabit. He realizes with a start that he feels no pain or sorrow as he watches their misery, but only hope and joy that one day, they will see each other again. He exhales softly. He turns back to Fate.

For the first time, he hears her speak. It’s not words like they sound to human ears, but rather much like a song. “Come with me, dearest. Come home.”

The words sound like everything he’s always wanted to hear. They sound like your family dog barking when you get home, greeting you at the back door. They smell like your mother’s baked bread. They taste like a home-cooked meal. They feel just right. They remind him of the places, the people, the things and the life that he had always wanted to have. The best days. Coming home.

How lovely that sounds.

He nods as she starts to walk away with the other spirits around them. They’re all smiling. There are no tears. He turns back, one last time, to look at his boys, crowded around the home he used to inhabit. He feels light, airy. No more weight dragging him down.

He smiles softly, knowing one day they will meet again. “May we meet again,” he murmurs softly.

A breeze floats by Niall’s ears as they load Louis into the back of the ambulance. He turns, looks at the horizon. Setting sun.

May we meet again.

_May we meet again._

Lana drives the ambulance back. It should be all climactic, all gore and roses, but it’s not. It’s quite simple. Harry comes out to meet them, as he always does. He’s on duty for Sophia’s ambulance. Number 94. Simple.

When he comes, he spots his boys sitting in the back of the wagon. He counts them off, like a teacher at a convention. One, two, three. Three? Louis must be somewhere else.

He smiles as he approaches. “You got a ride back then, eh? Lucky you.”

Liam looks up, meets his eyes. Bloodshot. Harry takes a step back. Simple. The air in his chest deflates. He swallows, blinks. Drops his bags. Earthquake, volcano. Erupt beneath the surface. Facts, black and white photographs. 75% of all icebergs are hidden beneath the water’s surface.

He takes two steps and he can see him, now. Bullet went through the right ventricle, by the looks of it. Nothing anyone could’ve done. Clean shot, he had minutes to live. He looks peaceful, someone had shut his eyes. Human. Flawed. Broken.

Complete.

He looks up again to Liam, then to Zayn and finally Niall. They’ve all been crying. They look shocked to see him so composed. It hasn’t hit him yet. He knows that. It’ll come later.

“We should go back,” he says loudly. Why is he shouting? To be heard above the chaos in his head. “We should go back to the tent.”

Dumbly they nod and make their way home. Some others are making their way back to their tents too. For the first time Harry sees their haggard faces in a new light. Of course they’re tired. Of course they’re weary. Emotional wounds are just as bad as physical ones. Strange, he thinks. Iceberg. 90% of an iceberg is hidden beneath the water’s surface.

You just don’t know what other people are going through until you see it for yourself.

They enter the tent and the beds are all made, neatly and tidily. There’s Louis’ journal sitting, open to that day’s journal entry. He’d left it there for them.

Shakily Liam picks it up. A teardrop falls on the page. Ink runs. He shakes his head and passes it to Zayn, falling onto the floor.

Zayn clears his throat and reads.

“ _Today I died._ ”

Harry doesn’t want to delve into that. Harry doesn’t like to think Louis knew he would die before he even left their tent that morning. It weighs too heavy. Ironic.

“ _Liam-_ thank you for always being sensible and straightforward. Thank you for always reminding me how important home and those you love are. You are the most brave person I know, simply because you let other people see how unbrave and weak you really are, which is the mostest brave thing of them all. I’ll say hi to Willie.

 _Niall-_ thank you for teaching me everything I will ever need to know about Canadian politics. Thank you for always putting everyone else in front of yourself. You are the most selfless person I ever met, and the most grateful, the most kind, the most gentle, the most humble and the funniest. Thank you for always making me laugh. I’ll put in a good word for Canada’s confederation while I’m up here. Who knows. Maybe God does have a say in those sort of things.

 _Zayn-_ thank you for always acting like royalty. It used to drive me crazy but know I see how that self-confidence was the thing that made you succeed. Thank you for always being so wise, so smart, so intelligent and three hundred and twenty three steps in front of everyone else. I used to fancy I’d saved you from some dark and dangerous future, but heaven knows it was the opposite.

 _Harry-_ I’ve left you until last because the words are the hardest to write down. I don’t like talking about my feelings and I never have. You all know so little of me and my past, and that’s the way I like it. But I suppose when a fella dies he deserves nice, flowery words and a frilly eulogy. Being that as it is, chances are, I’ll never get a moment like this ever again, so here goes. No one has ever gotten me like you and I’ve never found anyone who makes me laugh as much as you did. Thank you for being so honest and vulnerable with me. Your trust and confidence was something no one had ever gifted to me before. Maybe in another universe or another lifetime things would’ve turned out differently, but know that, to me, you were the definition of love.

May we meet again.

Pinky promise.

Always, _Louis_.”

\-----

Later that night they camp in a little town in Pennsylvania. Their tents wind up being sat right next to a church. For a while they sit around a fire, under the pretense of warming their chilled bones. But no heat enters their bodies. Numbness invades every atom, every molecule. He’s shaking, but he doesn’t consciously grasp it. He can only sense his mug trembling in his hands, the water from inside it sloshing out and onto his fingers. Liam watches him, mildly terrified. He has a look of horror on his face. He’s licking is lips frantically. They look chapped and bruised.

Funny, isn’t it. One moment in time. One bullet. One simple act of severity… It can ruin a man. Ruin sanity.

Niall chews his fingernails. Vaguely Harry sees Mary cooking some dinner for them out of his peripheral vision. She says things to him. He can’t comprehend them.

Zayn looks at him with compassion, and then back down at the ground, but no sadness is evident on his face. He told Harry once that when he was a slave, he wasn’t allowed to show his feelings. He had to keep them masked inside. Harry looks at him now with jealousy.

Eventually Zayn slams down his plate and swears loudly. “Get up,” he orders- all three of them. “Now.” The anger and passion in his voice scares Harry into action. Something burns in Zayn’s eyes and he frogmarches Niall up the church steps and throws open the door.

They step inside.

The door slams behind him.

Once Harry’s eyes adjust to the darkness, he can see a long sanctuary filled with pews. A lone piano sits at the front, with a simple wooden pulpit beside it. It’s quaint. Quiet.

Simple.

It’s not that Harry’s never been in a church. His mum always dragged him to one on Easter and Christmas, sometimes the irregular mass in between. He knows parts of the Bible, recited certain verses lazily in a sleazy attempt to earn a bubblegum drop. But it never felt this way. It never felt so… holy.

He hasn’t cried since they brought him the news. But as soon as he nears the end of the aisle, at the foot of the altar, the delicate, traumatized ocean of misery inside him bubbles and gently overflows.

 “Why did this have to happen,” Harry’s voice cries out- broken, in the empty silence of the still cathedral. “Please. Please… someone tell me why.” He turns, blinking through his murky tears: fragments of his vision twirling around in the dark space. Zayn watches him, halfway back down the aisle. Niall’s praying- kneeling- in the second pew. Liam comes up and grabs Harry’s hands.

“You lost a friend today?” A strong voice calls out from the back of the church. Behind Zayn, an old priest comes into Harry’s vision. “Someone you loved.”

Niall’s the one to answer. “Yes… Our… Our….”

“Brother,” Zayn finishes quietly.

The priest comes to the front row and looks over each of them gravely. His eyes are sorrowful. For a moment, Harry can see inside him. This isn’t the first time grown men have collapsed in his sanctuary, crying out to a God they never cared about previously, trying desperately to understand why, why, _why._ It isn’t the first time loss found its way into that sleepy little Pennsylvania town. Fate had found a way to creep into their homes at night, too, filling the listless town with the silent screams and twisted dreams of a mother, a sister, a father, a wife. Fate had turned the ocean of prairie grass into a sea of broken dreams. It wasn’t the first time he’d had broken men in his tiny cathedral.

And it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

The priest turns to Harry. It’s frightening, really. He hasn’t said a word to him but somehow, he knows who needs the most help. “You are hurting, my child,” the words slide like velvet over Harry’s face. “You are hurting because the world found a way to hurt you.”

Harry’s crying again. He lifts up his hands. They’re shaking, trembling beyond belief. Dirt and blood is smeared across them, itching at his skin. Absorbing into his spirit. “I can’t save them- - I couldn’t save him. I can’t save them all.” He looks back up to the priest. His eyes are a grey, blue, murky mixture of grief, of memories. There’s a ghost in there, staring back at Harry with blank, lifeless eyes. Only it’s not a ghost, it’s a reflection. The reflection of himself: cold, blank, lifeless. So that’s what he is now. A shell of a man. A ghost.

The priest takes the dirty, bloody hands in his and cradles them like a small and broken painting- ruined, yet still, somehow, beautiful. The rosary from his neck dangles delicately, moving with him as he moves towards the altar. “You say you could not save the people that you’ve lost. That you couldn’t save him.” The priest dips Harry’s hands into the holy water. “You are right. You cannot save people, my child. You can only love them.”

In the reflection of the water Harry can see his face- torn and beaten, streaked with tears, dust, soot and blood. For a moment as Harry looks into the liquid he can see Louis standing next to him, smiling, shivering, winking. The water is cold and Harry feels a shiver go up his spine as the priest gently scrubs his hands under the water, rippling the surface. When the water stills, Louis isn’t there anymore.

The priest locks eyes with Harry and Harry thinks he can see a thousand ghosts staring back at him through the glassy orbs. “My friend,” the priest says in his raspy voice. “The blood of Christ is enough to pay for all death, all life- in any age. You do not need to bear this alone.” He hands Harry an edge of his robe to dry his hands. As Harry does, little streaks of blood are left on the cloth. With trembling, century-old hands, the priest dips his hand into the holy water and carefully traces a cross on Harry’s forehead. “You are forgiven, child. Go and weep no more.”

Harry doesn’t know what it is. Religious people may say it was the Holy Spirit, others may say it was simply the emotion of the day catching up to him. Either way, Harry finds his eyes shut, feeling the water from the blessing dripping down his face- wiping away the blood, caressing his eyelashes. Memories of Louis flash into his mind. The first time he saw him, the last time he saw him. Losing him at the beginning and losing him at the end. Learning about Zayn, becoming brothers with Zayn. The train ride to Mary’s, the walk to the recruiting station. The carriage ride out of Hampton, the march to Gettysburg. All of these memories and more weigh heavy in his heart- all his ghosts, all his nightmares that haunt him at night. James Bartlett, Perrie Edwards, Anne Styles, Gemma Styles, Uncle Rutledge, Auntie Rutledge.

Harry closes his eyes.

The first memories that face him are bloody and red, but as he remembers the priest’s words, ( _“You are forgiven, child. Go and weep no more.”_ ) he begins to sifts through them like water sliding over sandy stones, and he begins to find the memories underneath. The nicer ones. The prettier ones. The ones that smell nice. The ones he’ll hang up in his living room and tell stories to with his grandchildren.

Meeting Louis for the first time.

The train ride to Mary’s house.

Apprenticing with Dr. Allison.

Saying goodbye to London.

The last time he saw his mum.

When he closes his eyes, the blood and the gore begin to fade away. The ghosts that haunted him for so long pack up their things, wave a final farewell and press a kiss to his cheek and, one by one, file out the door. The dog tags that sit heavy in Harry’s pocket will always stay there- heavy and hard, but they lose a little bit of their power that day. They lose a little bit of their magic. Harry wasn’t able to save James Bartlett, he wasn’t able to save Perrie Edwards, and he wasn’t able to save Louis Tomlinson.

But as he sits in the church, as he sobs and let’s go, Harry can see Louis’ ghost pack up his things and wink one final time at his beloved Hazza. _“You be good now, you here? You take care of my boys. Make sure Zayn eats his vegetables and Niall doesn’t drink too much once the war’s over.”_ Louis takes a piece of his heart right out from Harry’s chest and smiles wearily, pressing it into his bags and sighing. _“I love you, Hazza. I didn’t tell you that enough but I did. And I always will.”_ Louis presses a kiss to Harry’s cheek and whispers, _“I forgive you. Go and weep no more.”_

With that, the man, the ghost and the friend of Louis Tomlinson picks up his things and walks out of Harry’s life.

Harry lets go.

The stars shine brightly in the sky as the four boys make their way back to their tent. The loss is painfully obvious and none of them try to hide it, but instead of bemoaning the time they didn’t have with Louis, Harry rejoices and lets his emotions sweep over him in a flood of freedom.

Once in a lifetime, he thinks, once in a lifetime you meet someone like Louis Tomlinson. Once in a lifetime you form a bond with him unlike any other. And Harry has to trust that this lifetime turned out exactly like it was meant to. He has to trust that. And he trusts that, in another lifetime, in another universe, he and Louis are standing, side by side, and laughing because in some _other_ life, they are apart.

The day Harry loses Louis is cobalt. As Harry makes his way into the tent, the stars shine brightly. The birds sing mournful lullabies. Yet Harry’s never felt such peace. Of course, there will be hard days. There will be days when Harry can’t go on. But in that moment: after losing everything, after regaining everything, after being forgiven, after being blessed… Harry wants to remember. He wants to remember _this_ feeling- the feeling of Niall next to him, cuddling into his shoulder for warmth. Zayn on the other side, humming a soft song. Liam whispering math facts into Niall’s ear to keep himself from crying.

Their fingers locked in a pinky promise.

He wants to remember this, not the blood or the tears. He wants this to be what he sees when he closes his eyes.

He wants to remember _this_.

So he does.

\-----

We’ve now reached the part of the story called the denouement.

For those of us who are literary geniuses, we recall that this means the finishing of a story. The beginning of the end. It occurs after the climax, it solves further problems and resolves any leftover conflicts.

However, the root of the word _denouement_ comes from the French word _denouer_ \- which means, plainly, to untie. Now comes the untying of the story, of the characters. The letting go.

The unbecoming.

Gettysburg becomes known as the high water mark of the Confederacy. The battles subsequent to that are bloody, gory, but nevertheless gradually receding to a dull throb. They pass by, names on a paper. Numbers in a long list. Perhaps it’s the monotony that gets to them, the blood finally becomes numb to their eyes. Or perhaps it’s just Fate’s cruel way of rewarding them for surviving. A token of appreciation, if you will. A pill to numb the pain.

The denouement contains names and places like Vicksburg (split in two, upper hand, 4,835), Chickamauga (Confederate victory, siege, 16,170), Chattanooga (revenge, running for their lives, 5,815). It consists of sleepless nights, staring at the moon, waking screaming and not being able to stop. Hands that feel dirty, fingers you can never get quite clean. Exhaustion. Denial. Victory. Hope. Hatred. Human. Cursed.

Mary Walker bids goodbye sometime in October, saying she misses her books and her armchair. She promises they’ll see each other again, and they all wax poetic and laugh and boisterously bid her adieu because no one wants to admit the paralyzing fear that sits in their belly, night after night, that they won’t see each other again. That one of them will be unluckier than the rest. That they’ll have to go over it all over again. That this time they won’t make it out.

In November President Lincoln delivers what comes to be known as the Gettysburg Address. They read of it in the papers. Tears stain the ink, making the words run together. Harry misses home. Liam cries himself to sleep. Niall drinks more. Zayn sits, moping.

The months begin to blur together. They march South and meet with Sherman halfway through. Southern homes Harry used to visit when he apprenticed with Dr. Allison (all those years ago, feels like half a century) now lie, crumbling to the ground. Smoke curls up to the sky above where they once stood, animals scavenging for food or lying dead from starvation. The march through cities like Atlanta and Savannah, seeing the starving people reduced to mere beggars as they march past. Some of the men are haughty and proud. But Harry can’t bring himself to it.

Christmas doesn’t feel like Christmas. The snow outside their tent is bloody and brown, coffee-like mush that squeaks under their feet when they march. There is no celebrating. Harry walks through Petersburg on Boxing Day, watching a group of orphaned children eat a frozen carrot for their supper. He gives them some of his hardtack. He doesn’t tell anyone.

After President Lincoln is re-elected, Sophia departs for Washington to be with Mary and Tad again. They all hug her and give her kisses and tell her they love her. Liam hangs back, giving her a curt handshake and gruff, “Goodbye,” when it’s his turn. The saddest part is that none of them are shocked by his coldness. Sophia gets on a train and doesn’t look back. They don’t talk about it.

March, the snow begins to melt. Flowers begin to poke through the dank and desolate earth. The cracked soil, thirsty for nourishment, finds none. The flowers wilt. They don’t mention it.

April is full of rain and dark nights. They occupy Richmond and President Lincoln tours it beside Liam. They enter the Confederate White House. With an almost dreamy, serious expression, Lincoln sits at the desk of Confederate Jefferson Davis for a few moments. They don’t discuss it.

It’s a normal day like any other when Lee surrenders. Harry’s on guard duty outside the Appotomax Court House where it happens. It should be triumphant; it should be a big deal. But it isn’t. He’s numb to the feeling of victory, the idea that this truly is the end. Looking around him, he knows he’s not alone. When Lee and Grant exit the court house, Lee glances at Harry and sighs. “You too, Brutus?” he murmurs. Harry knows Lee recognized him. Funny. He doesn’t even recognize himself anymore. He doesn’t think about it.

He walks back to the tent and wearily steps inside. Niall’s guitar lays collecting dust in one corner. Zayn and Liam sit at opposite ends of the tent, reading books. There’s an empty space where Louis’ cot used to lie. They can never bring themselves to shift over it.

“It’s over,” he says in a long, drawn out fashion. It feels like he hasn’t spoken in days. Zayn puts the book down. “The war. It’s over.”

They all stare at him in a moment of stunned silence. Liam licks his lips. Niall twiddles his thumbs slowly. Zayn looks at Harry, then shifts his gaze to his boots. None of them look happy, or sad, or angry, or terrified. They just look numb. Tired. Weary. Human.

“Well,” Niall finally says. “Isn’t that something.”

Without meaning to, they all gaze blankly at the place where Louis used to lay. It’s a small consequence, really, when Harry stopped to think of it. Hundreds of patients had died underneath his fingertips, but none of them cut deeper than the one he used to know. Funny, isn’t it. In our lives, we meet people. Some, you never think about them again. Some, you think about what happened to them. Some, you hope that they think about you. And some, you wish that you never had to remember them, ever again.

But you do.

Yes, the war had ended. Hip-hip-hurray.

But not without a cost.

That evening at mess, the sentiment is shared. No one is celebrating. They all wear the same blank expressions as they had since they lost their special someone. Because that’s the thing. There was not a single, solitary man in that camp- or, I dare to reckon, across the wide and expansive country- that had not been marked by Fate’s vice grip. She had taken someone, something, from all of them- either directly or remotely. And they wore their battle armor well- shields up, blank face. No one could guess how much they really hurt.

The day the war ends is a brilliant mirage of colors. Harry likes to think God let Louis paint the sky that night, as one final goodbye, one final _thank you_. He looks up at the moon and he remembers all the starry skie he’s seen since that fateful night he had left Hampton behind, since the night his world had changed. He had learned so much. Through the process, it hadn’t seemed like much had changed. Day to day had occurred in a monotonous assembly line of four long years. From day to day it hadn’t seemed like much had changed at all. But looking back, Harry saw that everything had changed. Everything had changed very, very much.

\-----

A few days later, they are among the several hundred soldiers who raise the Stars and Stripes ceremoniously over Fort Sumter. In his mind, Harry subconsciously looks back, the that day in Mary’s kitchen, where she’d told him what had happened at this exact fort. How much had changed. How much he’d grown. He’d been just a boy then… But now…

Harry looks around him. He isn’t a man. Not yet. But perhaps he is on the pathway to being one.

Zayn saunters up to him, smiling. It shocks Harry to feel his face smile back. It seems to crack the skin around his mouth. When was the last time he’d done that?

“You and me,” Zayn murmured, swinging an arm around Harry’s shoulder. “You and me. We were heroes.”

Harry smirks and rolls his eyes. His hands are steady, like anchors by his side. The moment is pure, gleeful. A hero. He would never call himself that. But, he thinks, as they make their way back to their tent for the last time, perhaps he is something of a hero. Fifty percent.

Niall rolls out their sleeping bags and blows out the lantern. “Just think of it,” he murmurs. “This is the last night we’ll ever be doing this.”

Silence stretches over them as they all ponder that fact. Harry lets his mind wander to that very first day, with the fat conscription man, trading uniforms with Liam, sharing a tent, learning how to fire a gun, dish duty, their first battles. Haircuts in the river, learning to use their rations and add a little paprika on special occasions.

“By golly,” Liam breaks the silence. He licks his lips. “It’s really over.”

Harry doesn’t know how he’s meant to take that. Of course it’s over, of course the war’s over. Of course they’re happy. But there’s a tinge of sadness in Liam’s voice. It’s over. All those nights that they curled up next to each other, all those evenings Niall played a simple song on his guitar, all those mornings they woke up to a sleepy breakfast and headed off to their tasks for that day. He remembers the day they all met: April 15th, 1861. With a start he realizes that the day they’ll leave each other will be exactly four years later- April 15th, 1865. Over. Complete.

1,460 days. 4 years. Filled to the brim with wonderful, nostalgic, heartbreaking memories.

That night the President is shot. The next morning, he dies. That same morning the entire Union camp begins to disassemble their tents, sleeping bags. They return their uniforms and change back into civilian clothes. The cotton feels strange on Harry’s skin as he walks up to say goodbye to Tripler.

Not much had changed. Tripler is still yelling at Grimshaw for mixing the poultice and chamberpots together, whacking Nicholas’ head with a rolled-up medical journal and shouting for a clear 5-mile radius to hear. When he was done, Tripler turned and walked right past Harry, then turned around.

“Styles! By god, is that you!?”

Harry smiled and nodded, stepping forward and extending a hand. “I’ve come to sign off of duty.”

Tripler nodded, his double chin wagging along with it. “Well, you know. Bandage to the left, not the right. Remember that and you’ll be fine.” He shrugs and then smiles. “You were a damn good nurse, son. I’m mighty proud of you.”

Harry nods and makes his way out of the tent. He’s about two feet from the door when Tripler yells after him, “Styles!” Turning back, he sees Tripler standing behind him. “If you ever run into that Dr. Allison of yours… Say hello. From me.”

Harry nods. “I will,” he promises, waves a final time, and turns and walk back down to his tent. It’s touching, he thinks, to know that the barrier of four years between the North and the South was not so wide that friendships could not cross it. Perhaps, he thinks, perhaps in time that barrier will narrow.

He finds their tent gone, with Niall and Liam standing awkwardly staring at the spot where it used to sit. “Zayn’s gone to return it and get our final paychecks,” Niall explains, twiddling his thumbs as Harry comes to rest beside them. “Seems strange… To see it gone.”

“Funny, isn’t it?” Liam asks. “That little old, stinky tent with the green algae stain at the top has been our home for the past four years.”

“Apart from that time it got wet and we slept under the stars,” Niall interjected.

Liam laughed and kicked the ground where the tent used to be pitched. “That tent saw all the country with us.” A loose stone flies from the tip of Liam’s boot into the empty fire pit. “I’m going to welcome back my old bed though,” he laughed. “With open arms.”

Harry stares blankly at the spot of dry earth where the tent used to stand. He can’t help but think that this is an end to a season of sorts. There are seasons for everything, he thinks. There are seasons for wildness and seasons for being settled. Perhaps, he muses, this is the start of a season of becoming.

Harry picked up his bags. He had the most: two backpacks, army issued. One was filled with his things; not much, just some mementos from the wild and crazy journey they had wandered on. The other held Louis’ things, barely anything. Just his journal, his clothes. His ID papers. Quietly, when no one was looking, Harry slips Louis’ ID papers into his pocket, beside James Bartlett’s.

Zayn appears, holding four separate envelopes addressed to them. They were supposed to have been paid every month since the beginning of the war, but Harry could only remember a handful of times they were. There’s nothing special about the money inside. Sixteen dollars. Four years.

Thousands of memories.

They make their way up to the train station, where thousands of their other comrades are doing the same. They bid goodbye to men they fought alongside, nursed back to health, did dishes with. It’s only now that the exuberance emerges, the idea that they’re really going home. No one wants to imagine how much their homes have changed.

As Harry looks around the camp, sees the men he had grown up around, fought with, board trains and embark on a new adventure, it takes his breath away. How lucky they all were. It was easy to be fatalistic when heading home without a limb or your best friend. And no one would blame you for it. But it was smart to be positive, to breathe in the thin air of that April morning and thank God that they all made it, across those five Aprils.

Eventually they get their tickets and stop avoiding the obvious. Niall’s going north, back to Canada. “I’m gonna find Madame Watson, find some way to work so I can be back with her again,” he explains sheepishly. “But I’ll keep it touch, I promise. I-I… I don’t want to lose you.”

Liam is going back to his father’s place in Oregon, says he’ll go back to Springfield to see Tad and Mary and Sophia someday. “When I’m ready,” he elaborates. No one questions him further.

Zayn, ever the elusive saint, waited until the very end to unfold a faded letter addressed to him from Mary Edwards Walker. “She found my mother,” he explained shortly. No fireworks, just a fact. Niall whoops for joy. “And ma’s at Mary’s place. So… imma go back there.”

They don’t ask Harry where he’s going. He’s grateful.

Because he doesn’t know.

They all give each other watery hugs and exchange addresses, promising to keep in touch. Harry knows that these are promises which will never be broken. Sooner or later they run out of excuses to stay. Zayn is the first to rise.

“My train’s the next one,” he announces. For the first time, Harry can see a touch of emotion in Zayn’s dark, foreboding eyes. They look at each other for a long moment, and then Zayn looks back down at the ground. “It’s time for me to go.”

They all stand up and give each other one last hug. When Zayn’s train pulls into the depot, he turns towards it, then turns back suddenly. Tears are streaking down his cheeks as he extends his hand shakily. “One last time,” he whispers.

Niall’s the first to latch on, their pinkies trembling with the weight of that moment. Liam’s next. Harry’s last. The moment seems to last forever, as they clutch each other for what seems like the last time. Pinky promise. Forever.

Zayn breaks his hold when the train whistles. “May we meet again,” he says firmly as he wipes away his tears. And with that, he boards the train. It pulls out of the station and Niall makes a big deal of waving his hankie after it like a “war-torn lover”. Liam’s sobbing like a baby. Harry knows he is, too, but he pretends he isn’t.

Niall’s next. When his train comes he shrugs and plants a kiss on their cheeks. “I love you,” he says unashamedly. “Keep your eye on those Canadian newspapers. You’ll be seeing my name in a few of them.”

Liam makes some joke about ‘as a politician or a criminal, eh, Horan?’ and Niall criticizes an ‘American for using the word ‘eh’’, but Harry hugs Niall tightly. He jumps on his train like the miniature leprechaun he is and waves exuberantly out the window. “I won’t miss your smelly feet and bad cooking!” he yells, but Harry knows he will.

Liam and Harry sit in the silence waiting for Harry’s train. They’re some of the few men still left on the platform, and they sit on a bench in the warm April sunshine, swinging their feet. Harry’s mind flashes back to meeting Liam for the first time, trading uniforms, sharing secrets.

“Do you still love Sophia?” Harry asks bluntly, raising his head from its sleeping position and squinting at Liam in the bright sunshine. The older gentleman looks down in his lap. “I’m not sure,” Liam admits honestly, licking his lips. “I’d like to think so.” He looks up, then back down to his feet. “I just hope she still loves me.”

Harry studies him, softly. He nods. “I get that,” he murmurs. Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t.

The train pulls into the depot and as the whistle enters Harry’s ears, he thinks he can hear everything ever said to him in the last four years. He stands, sighing. He grabs his bags.

“I’m scared,” Liam starts as Harry’s about to walk away. Harry stares down at him. Liam? Scared? He had fought four years alongside Liam James Payne, and never once had he admitted to being scared. He was brave, fierce, strong. But never scared.

“Scared?” Harry repeats, shocks.

Liam nods. “I’m terrified. Terrified of the future… Of moving on from here. I’m terrified of loving Sophia and losing her.” Harry looks past Liam to the field where thousands of tents had stood, just a few short hours before. Now, only a few lonely tents were erected across the desolate plain. “All my life I’ve been Uncle Sam’s golden boy, but this war found a way to break even me.” A crow caws overhead in the pale blue sky. “I’m so, so scared.”

Harry thinks back to all the times that he had felt the same way. Fear had always been a part of his life, he realized. All his life he had been _scared._  Scared of life, of death, of love. Of loss. Time upon time he had been _scared,_ and he had learned (like a bird or a forest animal, learning to run from their hunter) to run away from circumstances or situations that made him terrified. It had become, slowly, his mode of survival. His mum, his sister, his uncle, his aunt, Fort Sumter, the states seceding. Running away. All his life he had been terrified, and he had run away from being terrified, which only led him to becoming more terrified. Terror, horror, fear.

But then, Harry realizes, that perhaps that is the point. Perhaps this is the point of all methods of survival. We, as humans, could and would be justified in living our lives just like that: a way of survival. Living day to day in an epic race just to _survive._ Because there are people like that, you know. You’ve seen them. They have everything but they keep running, running in a race with no finish line: for them, life is just survival. They don’t stop to smell the roses.

They’re too scared.

Harry thinks of all the times he’s been scared. Most days he was, most of the time. He thinks back to the trip to Charleston, to everything between that day and now, all the time he was scared. He realizes with a start that he is not the same man he once was. He realizes that fear is still a part of his entire being, and most likely always will be. And he realizes that he ran from most things that made him scared. But he also realizes that he became stronger, more independent, that he answered some of his own questions and fell in love along the way, once or twice, because eventually he learned to accept this: that fear is a part of life. That running makes you healthier, stronger. And that when you reach the end of a race, and you cross the finish line, you don’t need to keep running towards the next marathon. You can stop. You can smell the roses.

“I think,” Harry finally responds, looking at Liam, hands steady behind his back. “I think, if it scares you, it might be a good thing to try.”

He picks up his bags and boards the train.

\-----

They each go home.

Harry winds up back down in Charleston, but not for long. Word spread that he fought for the Union- and, well. The war’s over but it isn’t, at the same time. People nudge his shoulder and spit on his feet when he walks and he doesn’t feel welcome. He walks his way out to Hampton to find it burned to the ground, asks a passerby what happened – “A few men burned it to the ground a few years ago, after they found out that Rutledge was a sympathizer, never saw him or his wife again.” Harry stands on the site stupefied, staring at the place where Hampton used to be. He’s meandering his way back to the train station when Dr. Allison pulls over in his wagon and calls him over. They reunite. After a while Harry sets up practice with Dr. Allison again. He carries the ID papers in his pocket for two years, weighing him down, breaking him in half. One day he’s cleaning a scalpel when he decides he’s had enough. He goes out behind Allison’s practice and burns both of them- both Bartlett’s and Louis’ ID papers. Those ghosts have haunted him long enough.

Niall rides the train back to Nova Scotia, twiddling his thumbs the whole way. He stays true to his word and gets involved in politics, meets McGee, argues about rep by pop. He opens up a little bookstore in Halifax and meets a certain Isabella Valancy. He courts her for two months and they get married. In 1867 he’s at the first Canada Day- July 1st, and, true to his word, the day is gorgeous. One day he finds Madame Watson, and they bake bannock and dance around a bonfire and watch the stars. He plays the guitar. They sing a song. They watch the Northern Lights.

Liam finds his way back to Oregon, hitchhikes his way through the Wild West and smiles sadly as he passes through the wilderness, memories of Willie filtering through his mind. He reaches Oregon City and his father’s barber shop- still dusty and picturesque, just like Liam left it. He opens up the door and his father is sitting by the window, reading through the book of Romans and he doesn’t say anything, just smiles, gets up from his chair, holds Liam while they both cry and then asks if he wants some coffee. Liam says yes and then sleeps for what feels like days, happy to be home. He stays for about two weeks before he goes back to Springfield, he stands in the middle of the street like he did all those years ago- and then the door is thrown open and there’s Mrs. Lincoln, dressed in black, hands cupped over her mouth. She flies down the steps and Liam throws her into the air, swings her around, crying because they’ve both lost so much, this is one of the few familiar things they have left. And she just cries for a long time in his arms before she pushes him towards the door, mumbling, “Hurry up, then, she’s in the kitchen.” And Liam runs his way into the kitchen, throwing open the door- and there she is, face bent over the potatoes, looking up into his face. Sophia smiles and starts to cry, wiping her hands and making her way over to him, falling into his arms like she was made to be there and Liam thinks that, yes. This is his happy ending and this is the way it was supposed to turn out.

Zayn goes back to Mrs. Walker’s house, but this time he doesn’t sneak up to the back door in the darkness of night, this time he marches up to the front door and knocks proudly on it like he’s equal, because he is, and this is what he fought for. She opens up the door- dressed in her typical men’s clothing and all, smirking as if she knew he’d come back (she probably did) and calling out loudly a name Zayn yearned to remember. Into the hallway another woman steps- and this time, Zayn knows who she is. His mother. They embrace and they both cry for a very long time. The next few months are spent getting to know his mother again, catching up on years of lost history. One night she tells him who his father was. It scares him, a little, to think that he and Harry truly are related by blood. But he had known, he supposed. He had always known.

So, in the end, they all settle down with their respective families and life slowly, but surely, fluxes back into what it once had been. Everything seems the same, yet at the same time, nothing does. They still wake up with nightmares rattling through their every bone, still have moments where they can’t seem to get the blood of their hands. Sometimes their pinkies yearn for another to hold. Sometimes their ghosts recur in their dreams. And maybe they’ve all changed, since after. Maybe they’re all different people.

But maybe that’s okay.

+

“Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war, love is a growing up.”  
\-- James Baldwin

+

_July 2 nd, 1873 – Gettysburg, Pennsylvania_

Every year each of them, with each of their families, travel back to Pennsylvania for an annual picnic in July. Gettysburg fades into the recesses of their minds as not just a place where great blood was shed, but now also as a place where laughter and sunshine resides.

This year is no different.

Sophia and Liam are the first to arrive, with their five little ducks in a row trailing behind them (or- in front of them). Ida Marie is the first to clamber off the train, and she screeches and bolts straight into Uncle Harry’s arms. William and Walter follow obediently (William inheriting his father’s sense of seriousness, and Walter inheriting his mother’s sense of mischief), holding little Clara by the hand and tugging her along rapidly. “Let’s go set up over there, by that tree!” “I’ll race you!” The two boys set off in a flash of a sprint, piggybacking poor Clara across the gopher-holed field.

“Walter Lincoln, don’t you dare!” Sophia called with a shrill to her voice, handing Baby Louis to Harry without even glancing at him. Liam and Sophia had named all their kids with special meanings attached, and Baby Louis was no exception. (Of course- the six month old had no idea what power his name held, but still. Everyone else did).

Liam exited the train looking greener than a fish- holding everyone’s luggage and dirty diapers. “Every single year,” he complains as he deposits the diapers into the trash and gags. “I tell myself- ‘Liam, why do you do this to yourself. Why do you even bother?’” He frowns, licks his lips and gives Harry a warm hug, all the whining and complaining fading into the air. “Dragging five kids across the countryside-”

“Oh, hush up,” Sophia replies, taking the picnic basket from Liam and setting the luggage in the back of Harry’s wagon. “Massachusetts is hardly _across the countryside._ ”

“It sure seems like it,” Liam retorts, taking Baby Louis from Harry. “When you have five children.”

The other passengers from the train are slowly milling their way out into the town, and suddenly a boisterous “ ** _Oi!_** ” is heard from within the crowd. Ida smiles and stands on top of Sophia’s bag (“Ida! Ida, get off that at once.”) screeching, “Uncle Niall! Auntie Isabella!” Harry goes and greets Niall warmly, doing the same with Isabella and smirking when he sees her protruding belly. “And you thought you could keep it a secret,” he winks as he hugs her tightly. She just laughs.

They all travel back to their hotel to put their luggage away, and then back to the train station to pick up Zayn and Mary. Mary Edwards clambers off the train first, looking very much at home in her regular overalls and handkerchief. She embraces Harry first, kissing him soundly on the cheek and then greeting each of the children. Zayn comes off second, holding a Bible in one hand and a suitcase in the other. He meets their sparking eyes squarely, face on. He smiles. The conversation chatters for several minutes before Liam calls above the din, “Let’s go eat!”

A general cheer is heard from the children as they race off the platform and down the familiar trail leading to the battlefield. Sophia, Mary and Isabella all link arms and carry on following the kids, leaving the boys to their peace.

They stand for a long time, staring at the trail leading down to the familiar field. In the distance, in the recesses of their minds, they can still see him- always so brave, leading them off the battle. Harry used to think, that after doing this year after year, it would get easier.

But it doesn’t.

It doesn’t ever get worse; it just stays the same.

Liam grasps their hands and Niall latches on to Harry. “Well,” Liam says slowly, and quietly. “Shall we?”

Zayn smiles. “We shall.”

They continue down the long path until they get to the familiar place, where so much blood was shed and pain was delivered. If he closes his eyes, Harry can still remember it: the smell of blood, the smoke, the screams. He can still see Liam breaking the news to him, still smell the faint smell of incense in that little old church in Pennsylvania. It’s so easy to remember the bad times, the times when they couldn’t help but wonder if they’d ever get out.

Yet as Harry opens his eyes, he can see his future: all his godchildren playing tag in the wildflowers, Sophia passing out picnic food, Niall playing his beat up guitar. He can see Mary and Isabella debating over equality, Liam and Zayn playing a game of chess- just like they used to. It _is_ so easy to remember the bad, and sometimes- Harry thinks. Sometimes we tend to forget the good. The okay.

 _This_ is what he wants to remember.

He wants to remember Ida reaching into the potato salad with dirty fingers and Walter smacking her hand, causing the potato salad to fly all over Mary’s face. He wants to remember Sophia leading them in a rowdy rendition of Johnny Appleseed for a prayer. He wants to remember Baby Louis smiling when Liam shows him their only picture of Uncle Louis. He wants to remember Willie asking, “Tell us the Uncle Louis story!” even though they hear it every single year. He wants to remember Liam dutifully telling the story, of the man that was Uncle Louis, of the bravery and the courage he exhibited without fail. He wants to remember how all his godchildren think he’s a hero, how they think they’re all heroes for being a part of something so brilliant as a war. He wants to remember these things.

So later that night, when they’re all laid out on the picnic table staring at the stars, he closes his eyes. The first memories that face him are bloody and red, but as he sifts through them like water sliding over sandy stones, he begins to find the memories underneath. The ones from after the war: Liam and Sophia’s wedding. Opening his first medical practice. Zayn becoming a preacher. Niall introducing him to his new-found Canadian sweetheart, Isabella Valancy.

When he closes his eyes, the blood and the gore fade away. The stars shine brightly in the sky ahead as Ida points out the constellations and Walter corrects her on every single one. And he thinks, just maybe, if he looks hard enough and if he breathes and lets go, he can feel Louis beside him- pointing up at the stars too, whispering, “You’ll come home someday. You will. You’ll come home someday.” And Harry thinks, if Louis were here, he’d reply simply, “I am home. _This_ is home.”

The day the war ends is dark, navy blue. The real war’s been over for almost ten years, but in that moment: the moment, ten years later, of staring into the stars with his eyes closed and feeling Louis next to him, the war ends. The peace begins. And he wants to remember this. He wants to remember _this_ feeling- the feeling of Sophia next to him, laughing softly as Clara shouts about horses, and Niall on the other side, singing traditional Canadien lullabies. He wants to remember this, not the blood or the tears.

He wants to remember _this_.

So he does.

 

He closes his eyes.

 

+

_Once in a lifetime, it's just right, we make no mistakes. Not even a landslide or riptide could take it all away. Somehow it feels like nothing has changed; right now my heart is beating the same out loud someone's calling my name. It sounds like you. When I close my eyes, all the stars align. And you are by my side, you are by my side. Once in a lifetime, it's just right, we are always safe. Not even the bad guys in the dark night could take it all away. Somehow, feels like nothing has changed; right now my heart is beating the same out loud someone's calling my name. When I close my eyes, all the stars align. And you are by my side, you are by my side._

_Once in a lifetime, you were mine._

+  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear reader,  
> Thank you so much for journeying with me on the adventure that was When I Close My Eyes. This book honestly changed my life. 
> 
> The historical details of this book are, for the most part, true. Some of the ‘bigger chunks’ were altered slightly for artistic purposes: for example, most soldiers only spent 20% of their entire deployment in battle. I changed this time allotment for us to experience the Civil War in a more complete way. Some other historical inaccuracies that I wanted to touch on:  
> 1\. Mary Edwards Walker did really wear pants and she did have a husband named Albert. However, she grew up in New York and never would have met Harry’s mother or uncle.  
> 2\. Willie and Tad actually had two older brothers; Robert and Edward. Robert attended Harvard (graduated in 1864) and Edward died when he was three. These were omitted from the story with the understanding they would not be at the Lincoln house, at the time this story takes place.  
> 3\. While it takes a backseat in this story, the Underground Railroad was very much still alive and well at the time of WICME. Harriet Tubman, the woman whom Harry met on Slave Row at Boone, made 19 trips to the south and rescued over 300 slaves after fleeing to safety herself. Louis, of course, is a fictional character, but there were many like him who helped fugitive slaves to freedom.
> 
> Once again, thank you ever so much for reading this story and coming along on this crazy ride with me. I’ve had so much fun!
> 
> If you have any questions, I would absolutely love to hear from you and chat. Drop me a line at my Twitter or Tumblr (@purelyhxrry).
> 
> Loads upon loads of love,  
> Beth xx


End file.
